


Any Way the Wind Blows

by tinuviel_tinuviel



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Aravis has a gun, Bree is a navigation AI, F/M, Lots of Arguing, Motorcycle Road Trip, POC Shasta, Suicide reference, coravis, heck yeah i love these kids, that's enough tags for now, what if Narnia's long winter was apocalyptic climate change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2020-05-20 05:47:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19370737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinuviel_tinuviel/pseuds/tinuviel_tinuviel
Summary: “Testing fingerprints. Fingerprints accepted. Clearance level D. Identity unknown.” The AI paused. “Hello, friend of Narnia.”Shasta was found where the imperial highway meets the sea, adopted by a fisherman who maintains the road and scavenges the sunken city. He dreams of places where the last forests still clothe mountain slopes and the air doesn’t smell of brine and gasoline. A generation ago, the world fell to pieces. But when his fingerprint unlocks an AI with a bewildering message, he find that the ruins of his world hold greater and more dangerous secrets than he had imagined.





	1. How Shasta Set Out On His Travels

The second the storm beacons flickered off, the fisherman sent Shasta to clear the flooded highway. It was the morning after the hurricane subsided, and his shoulders ached from hours spent hauling debris and raking seaweed and trash from the storm drains so the standing water could drain. Now, he propped his rake against the concrete side of the highway and took a swig of freshwater from his canteen, squinting at his handiwork. As far as the eye could see, the concrete highway he maintained stretched across the glittering sea. He’d unclogged four kilometers of gutters and was pleased to see shining streams of water falling to the ocean below as the tiny lagoons left by the storm on the concrete road shrunk and disappeared.

In the distance, a glint of silver and red caught his eye, winking against the washed-out gray of the road. It grew rapidly, taking shape: a red-uniformed man on a bike trailing smoke. Excitement flared in his chest– an imperial messenger. And not just any messenger; he was coming across restricted waters on the tail of a storm, and without an envoy. This had to be something  _extraordinary._

“Boy!” The speeder swerved as he approached, splashing Shasta’s bare feet with sun-warmed water. His bike stuttered to a stop and Shasta caught a noseful of the thick smell of burning gasoline. He dropped to one knee, fixing his eyes on the speeder’s muddy boots as he dismounted. “Yes sir!”

“Get up,” the man grunted. Shasta obeyed immediately, taking in his massive shoulders, his haughty expression, the bags under his eyes. “Are you in charge of maintaining this section of the highway?”

“My guardian is, sir!” Shasta said. The man’s clothes were tattered and wet now, but had clearly once been finely made. An officer? Shasta straightened his back, trying to look prudent and attentive.

“I need to refuel my bike and resupply, both with as much speed and discretion as possible,” the speeder said, squinting like he was struggling to keep his eyes open. “Call up your guardian and have that arranged.”

Shasta nodded quickly. “My guardian is probably–”  _moping in his hammock at home_  “uh, recuperating in the seascraper,” he finished, pointing at the tip of a salvaged pre-Fever building emerging from the sea. “But I can take you to him. It’s not a long swim, although you’ll have to leave the bike.”

The speeder’s expression went from weariness to fury like lightning striking. “Abandon the bike? You idiot! This thing is more valuable than your life!” he snarled, hitting the body of the bike. Shasta flinched. The rings on his fingers clanged loudly against the metal. “Call your guardian and tell him to bring a tank of gas and then I’ll be on my way.”

“I– I’m sorry, sir,” Shasta said, glancing at the mud-streaked bike. “I don’t have any way to contact him from here, but it shouldn’t take long to swim over. And the coastal end of the road is still blocked so we won’t get any travelers who might damage the bike.”

“Don’t you have a boat nearby we can take to the seascraper?”

“No sir,” Shasta said, his stomach twisting as the speeder’s expression darkened. “Sorry, sir.”

The speeder rubbed his temple, frowning out at the seascraper. It had been the tallest building in the city before the ocean rose, but the fisherman chose it because of its proximity to the highway. It had sheltered Shasta almost all his life, and he knew the pockmarked facade and rusting exterior ladders better than his own face, but for the first time he saw it through the eyes of a speeder: a crumbling refuge for rats and two idiot humans who knew nothing grander.

“It looks like I have no choice,” the speeder growled. “Show me the way.”

\---

Shasta surfaced in the near-darkness of the seascraper’s interior, hauling the speeder up with him and guiding his hand to the slippery base of the interior staircase. The man sputtered and spit, clambering out of the water and beginning to climb without so much as a thank you. Trying to quash the disappointment roiling in his stomach, Shasta followed. So maybe the speeder’s exciting adventure didn’t need Shasta. He shouldn’t have been surprised. He grabbed a towel hanging from the wall and began towelling off as the speeder’s sloshing footsteps continued to mount the stairs. Once upon a time, from what he’d heard, this building had housed hundreds of people and scraped the sky. Now its only inhabitants made do with the uppermost levels of a curling staircase that led to the roof. Shasta heard the last step creak as the speeder reached the wide landing where the fisherman spent most of his time. He peeled off his dripping shirt and began drying himself. He could picture the scene perfectly. An open trapdoor letting a column of bright afternoon sun lit the otherwise dim and musty room. One hammock hung near the stairs, with old and molding pictures of distant mountains and long-since-sunken monuments pasted to the wall beside it. The other hammock would be swaying gently under the weight of the old fisherman, a towel over his eyes, a stick of jerky clutched in his wrinkled fingers.

“You shouldn’t be back yet, idiot boy,” the fisherman groused as the speeder’s steps stopped on the landing.

“I’m here to requisition a full tank of gasoline for imperial business,” the speeder said, his voice marble to the fisherman’s gravel. A thud shook flakes of rust from the ceiling over Shasta. Shasta smiled grimly, towelling his hair.

“Good sir– my good lord, I’m so sorry, I thought–”

“What you thought or didn’t think does not concern me,” the speeder interrupted. Shasta wrung out his shirt, eyebrows raised. “All I require is a good meal and the location of your gas reservoir.”

“A meal– yes, I would gladly give you a meal! You may stay as long as you need, my lord. But gasoline is scarce here, and we barely have enough to get us to town as it is– our ration is not so generous that–”

“Are you implying that the empire is stingy with its distribution of resources?” the speeder asked.  _Questioning his loyalty to the empire if he doesn’t agree. Effective but cruel_. “Your son assured me that you would be able to fill my requirements promptly,” he added. Shasta froze.  _Please don’t bring me up._

“I have no son,” the fisherman snapped.

“The boy on the highway–”

“Shasta is my ward. In exchange for taking him in I got a bigger gasoline ration and the title of roadkeeper. A thankless job,” the fisherman said, bitterness lacing his voice. “And I’m sorry if he mislead you, but we have no excess gasoline. None at all.” That was blatantly untrue. Did they have enough gasoline to give away? No. But did they have a tankful left? Yes. Shasta stood, slung the towel around his neck, and then hesitated. If he showed the speeder where the gas was, he might curry favor– and who knew where that could lead? The new radio they needed? A higher gasoline ration? A position as a mechanic in some far-off speeder outpost? But likely it would lead nowhere and then he’d have angered the fisherman for no reason, and that meant harsh words and hungry nights until the next storm blew, and no gas to boot.

His indecision was cut short with the reappearance of the speeder at the top of the stairs, haloed in light from the trapdoor. “Get up here,” he called. Shasta did, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim sunlight. The fisherman had sat up in his hammock, back curved like a snail shell, and his wispy chin jutted forward when he saw Shasta.

“Listen up,” the speeder commanded, folding his meaty arms. “I haven’t slept in two days and my patience is wearing very thin. I have a badly damaged bike that must be delivered to the capital as soon as possible. You have the good fortune of being the ones who will help this happen. I will have you reimbursed for your donation; if you keep delaying me, I will report you both for insubordination the moment I return to the capital.” The fisherman blanched, turning his bulging eyes on Shasta, who felt like he was navigating between a rock and a wreck. Too far toward either man and he’d be scuttled.

“Sir, maybe we can offer him dinner now,” he told the fisherman, widening his eyes. “And, uh, you two can negotiate then?”

“Perhaps you missed the part where I need to leave as soon as possible,” the speeder said, eyes narrowing.

“No, sir, I heard you sir!” Shasta assured him. “But remember that the highway is still blocked, and it’ll take at least three more hours to clear it.” The fisherman nodded quickly. Shasta chose his words carefully. “And by then it’ll be dark, and the cliffs on the way to Bithersee are treacherous. The census man drove off the edge two years back and they had to scrap his bike, it was so bad. He didn’t do so well himself either. But if… if you feel it would be safer to continue with the light of morning, we could give you a place to rest.” He sucked in a breath and waited.

“You’re saying I shouldn’t start tonight?” the speeder said slowly, unfolding his arms.

Shasta tugged at the ragged ends of the towel. “I couldn’t tell you what to do any better than you know yourself, sir.” He watched weights shifting in the speeder’s mind. More clearly than that, he saw the weariness in the man’s shoulders. The fisherman’s eyes flickered from Shasta to the speeder, but he had the good sense to bite his tongue.

“I won’t be able to drive to shore until morning?” the speeder asked.

Shasta nodded.

He took a deep breath, verging on a yawn. “Very well. I’ll spend the night,” he said.

The fisherman clasped his hands. “Very good! Perhaps after dinner we can come to an agreement over the gasoline–”

“There isn’t much to negotiate–”

“Perhaps we can arrange some compensation that will satisfy us both,” the fisherman said, stubbornly. Now that Shasta had bought him time to bargain, a spark of greed glittered in his eyes. He fancied himself a great haggler. Shasta was struck with the certainty that he would end up parting with the gasoline, but only at an outrageous price, a price that would let him swing in his hammock with a bottle of drink until the next hurricane. “My ward will sleep on the boat and you can have his hammock,” the fisherman said, gesturing magnanimously to Shasta’s hammock. He expected a sharp stab of hurt at being brushed aside like a useless thing once again, but only a dull irritation settled in the pit of his stomach. He was so _tired_ of it. He’d played his part and he was done. That was all he was good for. He dusted his hands and turned to descend to the lower levels again.

“Hold up, boy,” the speeder said. Shasta looked back, hope rising once more. The speeder would thank him, the speeder would ask him to stay, the speeder would need his help to– “Since this was  _your_  idea, I want you to stand guard by my bike to make sure nothing happens to it. All night,” the speeder said, his voice hard. “Understood? That’s imperial property and if anything happens–if you lay a  _finger_  on it– you and your father will pay the price.” Shasta looked at the fisherman, who nodded, without a trace of sympathy. The tiny flutter of hope was flattened.

“Yes, sir,” Shasta said, and left.

\---

Shasta clambered onto the highway beside the bike, dripping again, and lay down on the concrete. The sun was getting low. Without sitting up, he dumped out the contents of the waterproof bag he’d brought: his salvaged plastic canteen, a slightly damp dinner of dried fish and flatbread, the ratty towel as a pillow. The canteen rolled away, tracking water from the puddle forming beneath him. He ignored it, finding the flatbread and biting off a chunk.

The pretense of guarding the bike was vaguely ridiculous. Only lunatics would be travelling the night after a hurricane, and only imperial officials had traveled this highway for as long as he could remember. And who would steal a half-broken bike with an empty gas tank? He rolled over, staring at the bike in question. It really was a mess. A mass of cables twisted around the front like a spiderweb, with sharp clamps protruding from the navigation screen between the handlebars. The gas tank looked like it had been welded on with a different metal, with a boxy chamber affixed equally clumsily to the other side. The exhaust pipe was crooked and stained dark and greasy, and the whole bike was splattered with mud and seaweed.

But underneath all that, it had clean lines. It had been a nice bike at some point. He got on his knees and crawled closer to investigate. It had probably been a nice bike fairly recently, actually. That exhaust pipe would have pulled off completely if it were in use for more than a couple thousand kilometers. Most of these modifications looked like they had been done in the field with either terrible tools or no knowledge of mechanics.

“No wonder the speeder thinks you’re about to fall apart,” Shasta muttered. “He doesn’t have a clue how you work.” He stood up and tapped the screen. It stayed dark. He rubbed it with the hem of his shirt. He should at least be seeing the no-power icon flash. Nothing. He frowned. The speeder had said not to touch– but he would put everything back the way he found it. He could hardly make it worse than it already was. “And who knows,” he said, beginning to unclip the anchors of the cable spiderweb. “Maybe I’ll fix you up and I’ll get some big reward. That sounds real likely.” He investigated the cable spiderweb. It was attached to four ports on the side of the nav screen and two mismatched boxes, one welded to the front fender and the other glued to the bottom of the nav screen. No part of the system seemed to match– or be working with– any other part so he unplugged them all and dropped the tangle of wires onto the highway. “Let’s see if that does anything.” He touched the screen again.

It lit, dimly. He cheered. White text appeared against a dark background. Shasta bent over it, shading the screen. “F– Fih– Fin–”

A robotic voice read aloud, “Fingerprints detected. Testing fingerprints.”

“Wait, no, don’t do that!” Shasta said, his smile sliding from his face. The last thing he needed was for the bike to log his activation attempt for the speeder to see. “Stop that! Go back!”

“Testing fingerprints.” He grabbed the cable spiderweb again, searching for the right clips. “Fingerprints accepted. Clearance level D. Identity unknown. Hello, friend of Narnia.”

He dropped the web. “What?”

“Fingerprints accepted. Clearance level D. Identity unknown. Hello, friend of Narnia.”

“I’m sorry, friend of  _who_?”

“I said,  _hello_ , friend of Narnia,” the bike repeated impatiently. “And if you make me repeat that one more time I’m going to self-combust.” Shasta’s eyes widened and he scrambled back a few steps. “Now, we’re in dangerous territory and my fuel cell–” the bike stopped, static crackling. “Where’s my fuel cell? Was I gasjacked? This is terribly inconvenient. Alright, it looks like I’ll need some gasoline and then you and I need to get to the Narnian embassy as quickly as possible.”

Shasta shook his head like he had water in his ears to clear. He understood all the individual words the bike had said– well, except ‘gasjacked’– but strung together they weren’t making sense. “I think your scanner may be a little glitchy– I’m not a friend of Narnia. I don’t know who that is.”

“Narnia. A small country formed after the climate-collapse event known as the Fever. Neighbor and frequent rival of the empire in which we currently find ourselves. Ring any bells, smartie?”

“I’ve never heard of it,” Shasta said earnestly.

“Then h–” the voice stopped mid word. The screen dimmed to almost black.

Another glitch? Or had the bike’s power truly run out? Stars above, he was going to be in trouble if he broke this thing. “Hello?!” He banged his canteen on the corner of the screen.

“Stop that!” it ordered. Shasta jumped. “You say you have no knowledge of Narnia?”

“Yes sir,” he said.

“No need to call me sir, I’m a navigation AI, not a lord– I’m authorized to brief you with mission-critical information only. Here it is. This empire has been skirmishing with Narnia for years, seeking assimilation and/or subjugation. This has failed in part due to Narnia’s superior technology. For this reason, it is vital that I am not taken to the capital in the hands of an imperial speeder. On the contrary, I  _must_  get to the Narnian embassy to deliver vital intelligence from the battle-front.”

“But you can’t go anywhere without a speeder driving you,” Shasta said.

“And that, friend, is where you come in.”

Shasta’s mouth flapped like a fish’s. “Where I come– I– I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“Sneak me to the Narnian embassy in the imperial capital,” the AI said evenly. “You will be rewarded richly, I’m sure.”

“I think this is a mistake,” Shasta said. What a  _thought_. Just disappear into the sunset on a stolen bike. Stolen twice-over, apparently– from Narnia and then from the speeder. “I’ve never been out of sight of the ocean before. I’ve never ridden a bike. And I’ve certainly never been to Narnia.”

“Your fingerprint was tagged in my database as a friend of Narnia. Most Narnian citizens don’t receive the title. Of the friends of Narnia in my database, they are all leaders, diplomats, inventors or heroes. People who are implicitly trusted to do what’s best for Narnia and protect its people from collapse or capture.”

The AI’s monotone words filled Shasta with unjustifiable warmth that he struggled to tamp down. “You’re saying I’m someone special,” he said skeptically.

“Do you not want to be?”

Shasta made a face, unable to identify the emotions sizzling through him. “Even if I did– it’s not possible. You realize that, right? The speeder must have messed up your database.”

“The speeder can bypass the keypad and hijack the engine, but no one in this whole empire can touch my database.”  _Does it have an answer for everything?_ “If it weren’t a mistake, would you do it? Would you help Narnia?”

“Your scanner’s all grimy. It misread my fingerprint,” Shasta insisted.

“Scan it again,” the AI said. A pulsing white circle appeared on the screen. Shasta stared blankly at it, hands unmoving at his side. It would be very, very easy to press his finger, have it reject him, and return to life as before. Except then he would spend the rest of his days wishing it hadn’t been a mistake.  _But what if_ , whispered a tiny and electric part of his mind, _it’s not a mistake!_  Would that be better or worse? Questions circled like buzzards in his head. His vision blurred.  _Do it._  He blinked his eyes clear, took a deep breath, and stabbed his finger at the screen.

“Testing fingerprints. Fingerprints accepted. Clearance level D. Identity unknown.” The AI paused. “Hello, friend of Narnia.”

Shasta stared blankly at the words, unable to read them.  _It wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t a mistake._

“Will you come?” the bike asked.  _It wasn’t a mistake it wasn’t a mistake it wasn’t it wasn’t it wasn’t._

“Give me– I–” he shook his head, blinking rapidly. “I need a minute. To think.”

The bike’s screen silently lit with a ticking clock. 1:00. 0:59. 0:58. No! No, he couldn’t go! He felt panic rising in his chest at the very thought. The vast horizon seemed to fold in on him. The other friends of Narnia, the people who were meant to carry this out, were leaders and diplomats, impressive, smart people. He was no one. He was the idiot boy who no one was ever pleased with.

0:42. 0:41. He had to stay. He clung to the shreds of what he knew. The life of a fisherman’s ward. Weathering monthly hurricanes, raking seaweed, the narrow boat, the hot asphalt, the twisted thread that tied him to his guardian. It was all he was meant for.

0:30. 0:29. He knew his use, and he knew his future. If he stayed he would eventually set foot on the shore– when the fisherman died, and Shasta took his place. He would catch fish for food until he sank to the bottom of the sea and returned the favor. In the pit of his stomach, something twisted.

0:23. 0:22. Or could he go? He could hardly wrap his head around the concept of leaving. Of course he wanted to. He’d been dreaming about escape for as long as he remembered, pasting magazine pictures of far-off places next to his hammock and sneaking to the roof at night to look at the dark coast across the star-covered sea. But there was an ocean of difference between dreaming about leaving and actually cutting ties. He’d imagined when the chance came, it would be exciting and clear-cut. This wasn’t.

0:17. 0:16. He inhaled deeply, the familiar smell of salt and sweat filling his nostrils. Across the sea, the setting sun set the sea afire. Behind him, if he turned, he would see the smudge of coast he’d watched for years and on which he had never once set foot.

0:09. 0:08. Maybe wasn’t a mistake. Maybe this was a sign that he was ready. The thought rang through him like a bell. He could truly leave, and not look back.

0:06. It was time.

0:05. All he had to do was ride a bike. Could that be so hard?

0:04. Unbidden, giddiness bobbed like a buoy in his spirit. He almost laughed.

“Three, two, one–”

“I’ll go!” he said, loudly, then again, in a lower voice, a smile spreading across his face. “I’ll go.”

\---

Three hours later, Shasta hauled himself over the railing of the highway once more, dripping wet. Behind him, the seascraper was dark. Overheard, the moon was fat and bright. He slid his waterproof bag onto the ground and took out his most precious and dangerous cargo: a sealed tank of gasoline. He popped open the valve on the side of the bike and carefully refuelled it, the smell of gasoline sharp in his nostrils. He screwed the valve shut and tapped the bike’s nav screen. It light up.

“Hello, friend of Narnia,” the AI said quietly. If its voice had intonation, Shasta might think it sounded… pleased?

“You can call me Shasta,” he whispered. “And I got everything without them waking up.”

“Clothes? Food? As much water as you can carry? Ration stamps?”

“Uh-huh,” he said, carefully unloading each item from the bag. “I even grabbed some rope and bandages.”

“Excellent. Well done, Shasta.” Shasta searched the bike and found a low-slung trunk behind the seat, into which he quickly placed his belongings.“Tie the empty gas can to the back. It may be useful later,” the AI instructed. Shasta did, and then hesitantly straddled the bike. “Are you ready?”

“Good to go,” he said, his voice higher than normal.

“Alright. The throttle is on the right handle bar. Twist to accelerate. The little lever by your right hand is to brake. I’m calibrating the auto-stabilizer to your weight, so don’t worry about falling– just go slowly and try not to crash. You can do this.”

“Can I, though?” Shasta asked, laughing nervously.

In response, the engine sputtered to a start. “Go.”

Shasta took a deep breath, took one last look at the seascraper he’d called home for so long, and then twisted the right handle bar and started towards the coast.


	2. A Wayside Adventure

Shasta awoke to disorienting afternoon sun. He was laying on sand, hair salt-stiff, ratty towel under his head like a pillow and a low rusted dome over him like a roof. He blinked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Memories from the night before clicked into place like cogs: splashing down the flooded highway, winding his way up the cliffs, crawling into the dilapidated shell of a half-buried pre-Fever car. He rolled over, the back of his shirt caked with sand, and saw the bike wedged between the remains of the back seat and the empty window frame.

His back hurt from sleeping on uneven ground instead of his hammock. His knees were bruised from tipping off the bike on the curves of the road the night before. He didn’t even know why his neck was so sore. But waking undiscovered, safe, and far from home was more than he had expected, and his spirits were light as he rolled over and patted the bike’s dark nav screen. It flickered to life. “Fingerprints accepted. Hello, Shasta.”

“What’s the plan for today?” he yawned.

“Planning in progress. How much food and water did you bring?”

Shasta rifled through the little cargo rack, blinking. “Maybe… two days’ worth? But I have the ration stamp book, so I think we can get more food and fuel at outposts along the way.”

“Until your name and description are distributed for arrest.”

“What?!” He sat up hard, denting the roof of the car and then wincing, rubbing his scalp.

“You do realize that you just stole a valuable piece of imperial loot, don’t you?”

He groaned. “You mean I’m a thief now?”

“You took a stolen item with the intent of returning it to its rightful owner. I would call that noble,” the AI pointed out. “But yes, in the eyes of the empire, you are a criminal.”

Shasta exhaled, blowing his hair from his eyes. “So how are we going to get to the embassy without being caught?”

“The speeder’s communication system was lost in the storm. If you are correct in saying that the fisherman’s radio doesn’t function, it should take a day or two before word reaches a speeder outpost of the theft. After that, it’ll take another day or two for word to spread past Bithersee. That gives us two to four days before outpost officials will know to look out for us.”

Shasta lay back down, interlacing his fingers over his stomach. His legs stuck out through the window of the half-buried car. “The first place they’ll look for me is Bithersee. It’s the closest town, and the only one I’ve been to.” That he remembered, at least. This whole friend-of-Narnia business was stirring up questions of his birthplace that he thought he’d put to rest long ago.

“Will you be recognized if you go into Bithersee, then?”

Shasta considered. “Probably not– the fisherman never let me actually get off the boat. What are you thinking?”

“You know the empire as well as I do, Shasta,” it said. Shasta snorted. By all accounts his ignorance was hard to match. “Help me puzzle through this. You need a disguise that discourages questions, but that explains rapid travel.”

“A speeder, then,” Shasta said immediately. The AI buzzed, processing. “No one questions speeders on imperial business. And that would explain the bike, too.”

“Could you convincingly pretend to be a speeder?”

Shasta closed his eyes, picturing the speeders that travelled the highway over the sunken city. Most were old, with grey-speckled hair and fierce eyes, but he’d seen some young speeders. They had the same air about them– a haughtiness, an awareness of both their surroundings and their importance. And then of course he’d need the scarlet uniform… and boots, and maybe a helmet or headscarf to keep out dust. He imagined himself in speeder robes, shoulders thrown back, chin high. It was all glittering seaspray, a mirage in his mind, of course. But that certainly  _looked_  like someone who would get the job done. Someone other people would listen to.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “I think I could.”

—

Shasta crawled out of the shell of the car, leaving the bike hidden. The distribution center in the middle of town, where citizens and fishermen turned in ration stamps, doubled as the last speeder outpost before the highway crossed the gulf. If any building in town had unused speeder uniforms, it would be that one. But while he could get food and water and fuel, and probably even boots and a headscarf, without raising suspicion, asking for a speeder uniform would certainly draw attention. As soon as the fisherman or the speeder got to town, his description would spread, and anyone with two brain cells to rub together could figure out that the skinny boy needing speeder gear was actually Shasta, motorcycle thief and apparent speeder impersonator. The disguise would be worthless then.

So he kept his head low as he passed the faded city limit sign, wondering how to steal a speeder uniform without being noticed. The spine of Bithersee was a single road, the pavement cracked and faded. Dirt paths curved away like ribs, twisting between scattered huts and disappearing toward the glitter of the distant harbor. In the heart of town stood the distribution center, built on stilts to protect it from the floods that came every storm cycle. A gutter wrapped around the roof, funneling rain water into the community water tank underneath the building. A storm beacon protruded from the roof, but it was off: no storm would come for another two weeks, at least.

He paused, squinting up at the storm beacon. If appearances served, it was the same make as the ones he’d maintained for years: an antenna and a bulbous lightbulb squatting on a control box. An access ladder hung next to the dilapidated wooden stairs that led to the distribution center door. Shasta mounted the steps and knocked.

“Come in,” a woman called. He stepped in, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior; the only light came from a few windows criss-crossed with narrow boards and tape. The stale smell of sawdust permeated the quiet air. A woman in a sandy-brown uniform sat behind a desk piled with papers and metal trinkets. Aluminum cans were stacked in one corner of the room. There were three doors behind her. “What are you here to collect?” she asked.

“Boots, ma’am,” he said meekly.

“Who are you? I don’t recognize you,” she said, frowning.

His heartbeat stuttered. “Uh– I’m working on one of the fishing boats.”

“Whose?”

Shasta racked his brain for the name of a fisherman his guardian had mentioned in his long, barely coherent market day stories. “Melik?” he tried.

She nodded, apparently satisfied. “He’s getting old, then?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, holding in a sigh of relief. “Needed an extra pair of hands, so here I am.”

“He give you money for the boots, or should I write out an IOU?” she asked. A greedy part of Shasta wanted to put it on poor Melik’s tab, but he knew the panic of unexpected expenses too well to follow through. Good rubber-soled boots cost as much as gasoline for a whole storm cycle.

Instead, he pulled the fisherman’s stamp book from his pocket. “I have ration stamps to exchange.”

The woman held out one hand, fishing through the stacks of papers with the other. “Let me see the stamp book and head into the nonperishable storeroom, then we’ll get you straightened out.” He handed it to her. “Nonperishable door’s that one,” she said, motioning to the door on the far left. Shasta crossed to the door in the center, pulling it open. The room behind contained aisles of food: dented cans, bags of grain, plastic water tanks. This must be the perishable storeroom.

“On your left,” the woman called, still rifling through the forms. Shasta opened the door on the right. The smell of gasoline hit him like a wave. Dark spatters stained the walls; logbooks, bike parts, repair tools and batteries filled a row of shelves; a radio stood in the corner, and a pile of dirty speeder uniforms sat beneath a grimy window.

A hand pushed the door shut. Shasta turned to find the woman behind him, eyebrow lifted. “ _Other_  left,” she said.

He smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, ma’am.” He let her push him towards the third door. This room was filled with clothes and construction supplies, as far as he could tell– he rummaged through disordered shelves and bins until he found a pair of boots that were snug on his feet. The woman watched from the doorway as he tried them on, taking a few steps. He’d never had shoes sturdier than sandals; the weight was unfamiliar.

“You want socks to go with those?” she asked, pointing at the next bin. He ducked his head and pulled out a pair of socks, scanning the room for anything else that might be of use. A screwdriver on a nearby shelf caught his eye. He pretended to stumble on the untied laces of his new heavy shoes and bumped into the shelf, grabbing at the screwdriver and sliding it into his pocket. Heart thumping, he pulled off the shoes and returned to the doorway. “Anything else?” she asked.

“No, ma’am.” The screwdriver poked his thigh. Stealing from the empire wasn’t the same as stealing from a random fisherman, he reminded himself, feeling a twinge of guilt regardless. Watching the woman rip out enough gas stamps to fuel the boat for three weeks didn’t help. Shasta had made sure to leave enough food and water to last the fisherman through the next storm cycle at least, but the loss of his gas reserves, his ration stamp book and his source of free labor would hit the fisherman hard.

“Alright, you can take this back to Melik,” she said, handing him the booklet. “Then sign your name here and you’ll be good to go.” She gave him a form and a pen.

He tucked his new boots under one arm and scanned the paper, unable to read it. The fisherman had tried to teach him his letters when he was little, but had given up after a few weeks. The boy didn’t need to read to rake seaweed or fix storm beacons or mend nets. He could write his name and little else, but that would be a dead giveaway of his identity when the speeder came looking. He scratched an X on the dotted line and returned the paper and pen.

After he left, he paused halfway down the steps, pulling on his socks and boots, then turned his attention back to the building. He hadn’t seen any roof access aside from the ladder beside the front door. There were six windows total, three on the north side into the front room, and three on the south side, with one opening into each storeroom. He crept up the stairs on all fours, staying out of sight as he reached the access ladder and began to climb. It creaked under his weight and he froze, then continued up. Hopefully the woman was back at her desk.

This is a terrible plan, Shasta told himself as he reached the roof and crept up the slope towards the storm beacon. Failing more suitable material, the fisherman had tried to teach him to read using the storm beacon manual he got when he was promoted to roadkeeper. That was where he first saw diagrammed the workings of the control panel that he was now opening with the stolen screwdriver. Normally when a storm came, the antenna received a command from some imperial transmitter and the lightbulb began flashing red silently. But if the transmitter failed or a storm hit early, the beacon had an extra trick to alert the town to heightened danger. A manual override– with a siren. Shasta loosened a pair of screws and yanked the lever.

The lever came loose in his hand as an ear-piercing screech split the air. Set the lever on top of the control panel– throw the screws as far as possible– slam the control panel shut– stow the screwdriver. A second later, Shasta scrambled over the ridge of the roof and slid down the south side. The screws bounced off the roof and vanished as he caught his fingers on the gutter, pulling himself to a stop before he followed their fate. He glanced down at the cracked pavement– at least eight meters below his dangling feet– and gulped.  _This is easier than balancing on the boat in rough seas_ , he told himself.  _Just edge a little more to the right…_  his toes brushed a window ledge.  _There_.

On the other side of the building, the door slammed open and the woman cursed loudly. Shasta lowered himself into a squat on the windowsill, still grasping the gutter with one hand for balance. With the other hand he shoved his screwdriver under the window pane, levering it free. He wiggled his fingers in under the window pane and pulled it up a few inches, pausing to catch his breath. Sweat beaded on his back as he held himself against the window. The access ladder creaked– she was out of the building. The siren continued wailing. He rolled the screwdriver into the room and let go of the gutter to grab the window with both hands, sliding it all the way up with a grunt. His arms ached as he climbed into the room, landing with a thump on the pile of speeder uniforms. He grabbed one, tied it around his waist, and shoved the window shut. Mercifully, the glass muffled the keening of the siren. By now the woman would be struggling to unlock the combination lock. Shasta let himself out of the room and ran to the nonperishable storeroom on the far left and grabbed a coil of rope he’d seen near the door, then went to the perishable storeroom. He knocked over buckets of dried fruit and smashed a jar of precious honey capsules, catching his finger on a shard of glass as he stuffed pills of crystallized honey into his pockets. That should provide a good motive. That done, Shasta knotted one end of the rope around the freshwater tank and yanked the window open. The screaming of the siren returned; he grimaced as he shimmied down the rope. His finger stung. His new boots thumped as they hit the ground.

Shasta stumbled over to the rainwater tank under the distribution center and flopped to the ground beside it, panting. Now he just had to wait until she realized the screws were missing and went back into the distribution center to fetch replacements so he could run without being seen. She wouldn’t search for the culprit until that infernal noise stopped, unless he had drastically misjudged the situation. Which, he thought with slightly hysterical laughter bubbling in his throat, would probably result in immediate arrest and imprisonment while the bike rusted away and Narnia fell. No pressure.

He could still hear the woman’s boots stomping on the roof.  _Don’t take_ too _long to go back in or some townspeople might come investigate the siren_ , he thought, the new fear pricking him like broken glass. Sweat trickled down his back, dampening his shirt as he sat against the cool water tank. Were those footsteps coming from the roof or the ground?

A child’s head appeared around the water tank. “Who are  _you_?” Shasta suppressed a yelp, his hand flying out instinctively to quiet the girl. Her eyebrows furrowed. “What are you doing here?” she whispered.

This was bad. This was very not good. He needed a distraction. “Do you like honey?” Shasta whispered. He didn’t know enough about children to guess her age, but she was young, probably waist-high if he were standing, with big curious eyes. He fished a honey capsule from his pocket, holding it out on his open palm. She popped it in her mouth, considering for a moment, then her eyes lit up.

“Yes!”

Shasta let out a relieved breath. If she had grown up at all like him, she had only heard about honey’s sweetness. With bees so rare, it was a luxury she might never taste again. He pulled out a handful of honey capsules. “Will you help me? I need you to go up and tell– wait, stick your head out and tell me if anyone’s coming.” The little girl dutifully looked around the water tank.

“Nope, everyone’s at their house. Like I’m s’posed to be,” she said, grinning.

“You’re supposed to be at home?”

“If I ever heard the big noise,” she said. “But I wanted to come see it first.”

Shasta tried to look stern. “You should definitely go home if you hear that noise again. But this time you’re lucky.” She eyed his handful of honey capsules with bright eyes. “If you go up the stairs and yell at the lady on the roof that you saw a boy inside the building, you can have all of these,” he said. “Deal?”

She nodded quickly, sticking out her hand. Shasta poured the honey capsules– probably more than she could buy if she sold whatever shack she lived in– into her hand and watched them disappear into her pocket. “Tell her there’s a boy inside the building stealing things. And don’t tell her about me, okay? Or the honey. If you tell her about me or the honey you’ll get in trouble.”

“Only say there’s a boy inside the building stealing things,” she repeated, head bobbing, then she ran off. Her bare feet skipped up the steps. Shasta crouched, readying himself to run.

“Lady! Lady, there’s a boy in the building!” Her shrill voice rose above the siren.

“What?” the woman shouted back.

“There’s a boy! In the building! He’s taking stuff and things!” the little girl shrieked. The woman’s response was a wordless cry of frustration. Shasta felt another twinge of guilt. Imperial official or not, he hated to make her job harder.  _Can’t be helped,_  he told himself firmly, muscles tensing. The access ladder creaked. A second later, the door slammed. He took off like a shot, new boots flexing and thumping against the dusty pavement. As he ran, he stripped the speeder’s uniform off his waist and bundled it in his arms to hide the bright red fabric. His heart drummed in his chest against his clenched fingers. He crossed the road like a bullet and tore away from the distribution center, kicking up dust as he ran.

He didn’t slow until he was well and truly out of sight of the distribution center, throat and legs on fire, hidden by dunes and rocky plateaus as well as distance. The siren had dropped from a scream to a squeal to a faint whine, and then abruptly stopped. He trudged towards the car, head bent, his prize clutched against his chest. When he finally saw the ruined car where the bike was hidden, he collapsed to the ground and crawled in, not caring that he was rubbing dust all over himself and the uniform. It would add to the authenticity, or something. He needed water. Pulling his plastic canteen from the cargo rack, he gulped down water, letting it run down his chin as he gasped for breath. When he couldn’t drink any more, he slapped his hand against the AI’s nav screen and lowered himself to the ground, groaning.

“Fingerprints identified. Hello, Shasta. I take it you were successful.”

“I almost got caught,” he panted. His heartbeat still pounded in his throat. “AhhhhHHH. I could have gotten life in prison right there.”

“Did you get the disguise?” the AI asked.

“If there had been anyone besides that little girl– if the window had been locked–”

“ _Did you get the disguise?_ ”

Shasta rolled over, pressing his face against the cool, dusty metal of the fender. A smile stretched his dirt-streaked face. “Yeah, I got the disguise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> save the bees
> 
> Please leave kudos & comments! They inspire me big-time. <3


	3. An Unwelcome Fellow Traveler

When Shasta finally hauled the bike from the car wreck and righted it, stars were splattered across the dark blue sky, and the climbing moon shone on his crimson uniform. His tattered fishing clothes were stowed in the cargo rack and a honey capsule was tucked into his cheek. It was wonderfully sweet. He keyed in his fingerprint and mounted the bike as the engine thrummed. White lines twisted across the nav screen, marking the coast, cliff edges, and the road ahead. Wordlessly, Shasta began to drive.

A few hours into the night, it was clear that the trip was going better than the night before. As the path descended into twisting and crisscrossing ravines, Shasta began to lean into turns to help the auto-stabilizer, to accelerate and decelerate more smoothly, to anticipate the jumps and kicks of the bike when he cut corners or leapt potholes. The ravine walls were so high, three men stacked wouldn’t clear the upper rim, and the bed of damp pebbles crunched under the bike’s tires.

The moon was high when Shasta broke the silence. “Tell me about Narnia.”

“92% of my knowledge is classified beyond your current level of clearance. Eyes on the road, please.”

Shasta made a face. “My eyes are already on the road. Tell me the information I’m allowed to hear,” he prodded, swerving and thumping over ruts in the gravel.

“If you didn’t drift to your left every time you talked, I might be convinced.”

“I’m driving just fine!” Shasta protested. The bike hit a pothole head on, bouncing through with a thump.

“Eyes on the road!”

Shasta ducked his head, focusing on the road. The moon was bright, but the ravine floor remained swathed in shadows. He didn’t dare turn on the headlight while they were still near Bithersee. He swerved around a pothole, then began weaving, jiggling the handlebars so the bike zig-zagged.

“What are you doing?” the AI asked.

“Practicing,” Shasta said, squinting at the road. He nearly hit a protrusion in the canyon wall and jerked the handlebars to the side.

“Practicing what, exactly?”

“Control.” He wavered near the other ravine wall.

“I appreciate the sentiment but: stop.” Shasta grinned, wiggling the handlebars. The bike thu-thumped through another pothole. “I said stop! You’re scaring me.”

“Can AI feel fear?” he asked, genuinely curious.

The bike buzzed. “It’s hard to know. But I do know that these rocks would be a lot less comfortable to fall on if I were to turn off the auto-stabilizer right now, Mr. Ace Speeder.”

“Is that a threat?” Shasta asked, taking a sharp turn a little too fast and tilting momentarily.

The AI switched tacks. “If you have one pressing question, I’ll answer it as best as I can. Just stop doing– that.” Shasta immediately straightened the handlebars.

“Deal. Tell me–”  _Start small. Easy to answer._  “Tell me what the route will be like that we’re taking to the capital. Will we be crossing any mountains?” That would be mad cool. The bike’s tires sent pebbles clattering against each other.

“Unlikely.” Its voice cut off. Shasta rolled his eyes.

“I’m sure there’s  _something_  else you can tell me that’s not classified,” he said, raising his voice over the noise of the path. The screen flickered, catching his eye. A volume symbol, dropping to mute. “What are you doing that for?” Shasta demanded. “That was hardly a real answer.” Words flashed across the screen.

“Cah– cau– you know I can’t read that,” he said irritably, his glance flickering from the glass screen to the road ahead. A headlight really would be nice at this point. He had the most uncomfortable feeling of being watched. It would be wise to slow down. Instead, he twisted the gas, apprehension prickling his scalp as he accelerated. His surroundings smeared past, the canyon walls loomed dark on either side, the upper rims lined with the jagged silhouette of rocks. And up ahead, a dark mass–

A gunshot split the silence, nearly scaring him out of his skin. Light flashed, plastic shattered, water splashed: broken fragments of his plastic water bottle skittered across the canyon floor. He screamed. Ahead, his eyes mapped the shadows into a hulking blockage stretching most of the width of the ravine, on which the shooter stood. A crash was inevitable.

“Brake or I’ll blow out your tires next!” a shrill voice shouted. Shasta had already slammed the brakes, fear shooting electric through his veins, both of and for the shooter. The blockage approached far too fast. Brakes squealed as he swerved, zigzagging, throwing his weight against the pull of the auto-stabilizer as he desperately fought to decelerate. Another bullet shrieked past, clipping his ear. The bike’s tires lost their traction and it slipped onto its side, skidding across the ravine bed, skinning the side of Shasta’s leg and spinning him to a stop at the base of the blockage.

Shasta lay on the ground, panting. The side of his leg burned and his whole body hurt. His ear stung. There didn’t seem to be enough oxygen to fill his lungs. Rocks and wreckage clattered near his head as a pair of boots hit the ground.

But instead of footsteps crunching towards him, he heard the bike being pulled upright. Shasta rolled over, panic icing his nerves. “Stop!” he said, arms flailing as he watched the shooter mount the bike with practiced ease. Their head turned towards him and then back to the nav screen, tapping the screen. It flickered to life.

The AI’s impassive voice echoed in the ravine, too loud. “Testing fingerprints. Fingerprints unknown.” The screen went dark. Shasta scrambled to his feet, wincing.

“Leave the–”

The shooter dismounted rapidly, leveling their gun at him. His words choked. “Key in your fingerprints or I’ll shoot you. Double-cross me and I’ll shoot out the bike’s tires, _then_  you.” The voice was muffled by swathes of fabric, but they sounded– young. Young and pitiless. Beneath layers of cold, churning fear, Shasta felt a little irritation. Was this just another  _kid?_  They couldn’t be taller than him, and under all the jackets and scarves they looked skinnier, too.

“Give you my bike– or you’ll shoot me?” he repeated, trying to buy time for his breath to return. The shooter nodded sharply. Shasta took a step towards the bike, then his knees buckled. He would’ve fallen if the shooter hadn’t caught him roughly, locking one arm beneath his armpit, their pistol pressed across his chest. Seizing on the moment of distraction, Shasta grabbed at the pistol, knocking it from their grasp. It crashed to the ground– the shooter cried out– and Shasta lunged towards the bike, tottering as he lifted the bike. Before he could swing his leg over, the shooter tackled him and fell, in a tangle of limbs, onto the rocky bed of the ravine. With an  _oof_ , his lungs were emptied of air again. Before he could try to stand, the shooter had latched onto his arm and hauled him a couple steps to the downed motorbike, pressing his hand to the nav screen.

“Testing fingerprints. Fingerprints accepted. Clearance level D. Identity unknown. Hello, friend of Narnia.” The engine purred to life; the shooter dropped his arm and mounted rapidly. The engine revved… and then died. “Inconsistent weight detected. Auto-stabilizer jeopardized.”

It was calibrated for his weight. Shasta dragged himself to his feet once more, a triumphant smile pulling at the corners of his mouth– but the shooter ignored him, staring at the screen. “Friend of Narnia?” they muttered. They swivelled, hand shooting out, grabbing Shasta’s arm and pulling him off balance. He collapsed again with a grunt against the bike as the shooter pulled up his sleeve, revealing bare brown skin. “You’re not a real speeder!” they accused.

He jerked his hand back, pulling his sleeve down. “Yes, I am!”

“You are not! You don’t have the tattoo!”

He sputtered. Tattoo? “What does it matter to you?”

“You know, impersonating an imperial official is illegal,” they said.

“Yeah, well, so is stealing my bike!”

The shooter crossed their arms. “I bet it isn’t even your bike. I bet you stole it from a real speeder.”

“Did not!”

The other person huffed. “Look, I don’t want to waste time. Tell me what the override code is, and I’ll leave you with your supplies.  _And_  I won’t tell anyone that you’re running around impersonating a speeder.”

“There is no override code. How about you get off  _my_  bike and I’ll forgive you for wasting half my water supply, trying to rob me, and threatening to kill me!” he shot back.

The shooter just shook their head. Shasta glanced around, searching for a bargaining chip. There. The shooter’s fallen gun glinted in the gravel. He lunged for it and pointed it at them. They just tossed their head disdainfully. “You’re not going to shoot.”

“I will,” he lied, trying to set his face into something determined and dangerous. He failed.

“You won’t. It’s not as easy as it seems. You’re paralyzed.” They paused. “Well, here we are. I can’t ride your bike, and you won’t shoot my gun. You can’t walk out of here, and I refuse to. Is that the shape of things?”

Shasta mimicked their snooty tone. “That does look like the shape of things.”

The bike’s nav screen lit up. “Then maybe you two crackheads should start working on a compromise,” the AI said impassively.

The shooter screamed, almost falling off the bike. Shasta snorted.

“Who was that?” they demanded.

“That’s the bike,” Shasta said.

The shooter gestured wildly at the nav screen. “That is not the kind of language I’ve heard from any decent imperial AI.”

“Which logically suggests that I am not a decent imperial AI,” the bike said smoothly. “And perhaps if you would fill us in on your reason for attempted robbery we could come to a compromise that doesn’t end in us spending the whole night here.”

The shooter pressed a hand to their heart, shocked into honesty. “I need a ride to the capital.”

“Excellent, that’s where we’re headed,” the AI said. “The bike has space for two. Carpooling is good for the planet. And you could afford to do something nice for her once in a while.”

“I don’t follow–” the shooter said.

“We are  _not_  going together,” Shasta interrupted, glaring at the bike.

“I don’t see what the fuss is about,” the AI said.

“They just threatened to shoot me!” he said shrilly. “And you!”

“But they didn’t.”

“They’ll betray us in at the first chance!”

“Thieves generally avoid the authorities, actually,” it countered. “And a wealthy young woman who turns to armed robbery for a ride to the capital probably has bigger concerns than turning on her only ally.”

“Young woman?” Shasta asked.

“What makes you think I’m wealthy?” the shooter demanded.

“Ma’am, only speeders and the wealthy know their way around a motorcycle as well as you, and if you were a speeder you wouldn’t need to steal a motorcycle.” The girl and Shasta stared at each other in silence. Shasta’s mind felt like it was stuck in tar. Why was the AI so  _reasonable?_  Of course she would betray them… but of course she  _wouldn’t_ , that wouldn’t make sense either. “Shasta, if you truly feel that this is a bad idea– and have a better proposal– I defer to you.” The AI paused, letting its words hang in the air.

Shasta pretended to think, pursing his lips. But he didn’t have any better idea, and eventually he had to admit defeat. “ _Fine_. She can come with us. At least for tonight. But I at least want to know your name,” he said, the last part addressed to the shooter with a jerk of his chin.

“And I want my gun,” she said. He hesitated.  _You won’t shoot. It’s not as easy as it seems._ He believed that, at least. He passed the pistol to her. She tucked it into the folds around her waist. “My name is Aravis.”

“My name’s Shasta,” he said. “And you’re in my seat.”

“I saw how you drive,” she said. “I don’t want to end up a smear on the canyon wall.”

“The boy drives,” the AI cut in. “Not that I doubt your driving, ma’am, or prefer his.” Shasta’s smirk disappeared as fast as it had appeared. It was a barbed victory.

Aravis seemed about to protest, but then thought better of it and scooted back on the seat, allowing room for Shasta to sit. “And how should I address you, Mr. Not-a-Decent-Imperial-AI?” she asked, ignoring Shasta as he squeezed in front of her.

“My serial code is br33wf8hnii,” the AI said. It had never occurred to Shasta to ask this, which only soured his mood further.

“Br33–” Aravis began to repeat.

“Bree it is,” Shasta interrupted, tapping his finger against the nav screen. The girl’s bony knees brushed his hips, and he felt he’d already heard enough of her haughty voice to last a lifetime. “In the interest of not spending the whole night here, let’s get going, why don’t we?” Bree’s engine purred to life.

“Please do,” she said. Bree’s nav screen lit with the map of the road once more. Shasta maneuvered around the blockage and shot off into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment and I will love you forever! :D  
> Find me on tumblr: @postapocalyptic-narnia


	4. Across the Desert

“Testing fingerprint. Identified as Aravis. Clearance level: none.” Shasta awoke to the girl’s disappointed snort and sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“What are you doing?” he demanded. It was afternoon again, his scraped leg ached, and his mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. He’d made a point of stretching out between Aravis and the bike last night, but that hadn’t stopped her.

“I was wondering why you never used the kickstand,” she said, dismounting and stepping over him.

“And you had to touch the nav screen for that?”

“Turns out it’s wedged behind the exhaust pipe. What kind of screwed-up bike did you steal?” she needled.

He was undeterred. “You were trying to steal the bike, weren’t you?”

Her chin jutted. “Clever, aren’t you?” He scowled, crawling to the bike to find breakfast. His water storage had been halved when Aravis shot his canteen _(she better not be expecting to share his water now,_ he thought) and his reserve water bottle tasted like brine. On top of that, the only food he had was fish jerky, flatbread, and honey capsules. Aravis watched him drop a honey capsule into the water, then sandwich the fish between the bread and begin to eat. 

He stared right back, cataloguing her features for the authorities in case he had the chance to rat her out. Her skin was as brown as an eagle’s wing, like the birds that sometimes wheeled around the fishing boat. She had a beaky sort of nose too, and a sharp chin. A dusk-purple scarf half-hid a mass of black curls, and she must be wearing every item of clothing she owned: he saw a second scarf around her waist, two pairs of pants, and at least three shirt hems under her baggy leather jacket.

“You can put your clove ih va funk,” he said, mouth full of food.

She looked at him with disgust. “Pardon?”

His cheeks heated as he swallowed. “You can put your clothes in the trunk instead of wearing, like, all of them.” He gestured with his sandwich. “There’s plenty of space. Since you shot my canteen.”

Guilt flashed across her face, followed by a fake smile. “Good thing I did, then.”

Shasta made a face. As Aravis wiggled out of her extra layers, he finished his sandwich and stood, rubbing his leg. Ouch. “Where are we going today, Bree?” he asked.

“We need to refuel in half a mile, at outpost 37,” the AI responded. “There seems to be a clog between the gas tank and the engine, too, if you could check on that.”

“You aren’t self-repairing, with all your fancy features?” Aravis asked, stuffing a bundle of fabric into the cargo rack. Shasta retrieved his stolen screwdriver, opened the tank and began to probe.

Bree ignored her. “Aravis, you’ll need to stay here to maintain the speeder disguise--”

“I knew it was a disguise!”

“That was pretty obvious by now,” Shasta grunted.

“--as speeders probably don’t travel with passengers,” Bree continued, as though no interruption had occurred. “If you stay right here and don’t attempt any mischief, you have my word we will return for you.” Shasta snapped the gas tank valve shut.

“If you’re not here when we get back, we’re leaving without you,” he said, straddling the bike.

“And if you leave me behind I’ll report you to outpost 37 and you’ll be arrested within the week,” she countered. He had no response to that. His leg stung as he drove away.

 

When they returned an hour later, Aravis leapt to her feet. “Did you get caught?” she asked, over the thrum of the engine. He stopped beside her, the relief of a successful refuel giving way to stiff distrust.

“Yeah, I just came back to ride double to prison.”

She jerked her chin at the bike. “My turn to drive today?”

“Not a chance,” Bree said.

“But I know these roads,” she wheedled.

“You’re from here?” Bree asked.

She hesitated, face hardening. There it was again. “None of your business.” He pointed his toes, stretching his throbbing leg. _What if I just… drove away…_

He jerked his head. “Get on the bike,” he said. Lips tight, she did.

 

Shasta couldn’t think of a more awkward situation than riding for hours with a stranger who shut up like a clam for a solid hour after Bree’s probing question. She seemed determined to let him forget her presence-- she didn’t talk, and she sat so far back on the seat they barely touched. If it hadn’t been for the occasional brush of her knees or hands he could imagine she’d fallen off a few gullies ago and it was just him and Bree again.

But then Bree commented on some ruins they passed, and Aravis recognized the name, and Shasta realized there _was_ a more awkward situation: sitting between a stranger and an AI as they chattered for hours about places and events you’ve never heard of. The moon rose, crested, and started to sink. He clenched his jaw. The wind was brisk, and his scraped leg still throbbed with pain. Aravis seemed to know all about the landmarks of the area, and Bree was delighted by her stories. His leg began to hurt in earnest.

Finally he broke in. “Can we stop soon, Bree?”

“Our destination is Fahar, eighty seven kilometers away.”

He gritted his teeth, trying to keep his voice steady. “Can we stop before then?”

“Are you about to cry?” Aravis asked, with clinical curiosity.

“Shasta, are you alright?” Bree asked.

“I’m not going to cry!” he said. His leg was _burning._ “I just need to rest for a little bit. My leg stings.”

“Are you injured?”

“Maybe a little,” he said. “I scraped my leg when I fell last night.”

“Did you puncture the skin?” Bree asked.

Shasta grimaced as the bike jolted over a pothole. “Did I what?”

“Did it bleed?” Aravis interpreted.

“Yeah,” Shasta said. “But I think it stopped by the time we went to town today.”

“It kept bleeding for sixteen hours?” Bree demanded.

The throbbing in Shasta’s leg was joined by a tingle of fear. “Is that a long time?”

“We should probably stop sooner than later,” Bree said, ignoring the question. “I don’t see any safe spots for another fifty kilometers. Can you make it that far?”

Shasta blinked back tears. “I don’t know.”

“I can drive,” Aravis offered.

“No!” Pain made Shasta’s voice sharp. “This isn’t your mission.”

“Don’t tell me you think you can keep going with your leg scraped up like that!”

“If I have to keep going, I will.” She huffed. He grimaced at the road. Fifty kilometers was so far. His eyes blurred. He squeezed them shut for a split second and the bike drifted off the road. He swerved back onto the pavement, pain jolting through his leg as Aravis clutched his shoulder.

“You need to rest!” she insisted.

“You’re just saying that because you want to drive!”

“You are an _idiot.”_

“This isn’t your mission,” he repeated through clenched teeth.

She rapped her knuckles against his shoulder blade. “I’m not saying let me drive!” she said. “You _need_ to get that leg looked at!” Frustration colored her voice. “I know this area, alright? There’s an old ruined mansion near here, with a walled garden. It’ll be safe, it’ll be quiet-- there might even be some water.” She laced her arm under Shasta’s to tap a point on Bree’s map.

Every fiber of his body begged to believe her. He fought the instinctive rush of relief, clinging to the mistrust he felt before pain addled his mind. “Bree, is that alright with you?”

“If you think it’s a good idea,” the AI said. That wasn’t the answer he expected, or wanted. He _didn’t_ think it was a good idea-- but he desperately wanted to. She sounded so earnest. And his leg hurt _so badly_. He wrestled with the decision for another moment, then gave in.

“Let’s stop.” His breath caught on the words, but Bree didn’t object. A white dot appeared where Aravis had tapped the screen.

“Very well. You’ll leave the pavement to your left in fifty meters. This was a residential area, so watch for metal debris that might puncture a tire.” Shasta’s face twisted as they thumped off the pavement. Bree guided him up the roots of a plateau, with Aravis interrupting to warn of wreckage or direct him towards threads of surviving pavement.

At last they pulled up beside hulking clay walls. Aravis hopped off, kicking open a rusting gate. “In here.” Shasta followed, the once-garden opening around them: dunes of dirt divided by crossing stone paths, with a darkened pool or fountain at the center. The moon was low in the west. Shasta drove Bree to the center and slid off the bike, trying to keep his injured leg straight.

“Turn on the headlight so I can see,” said Aravis, dropping to her knees beside him.

Shasta pulled back. “I’m fine. Just need to stretch--”

“Stop saying you’re fine!” she snapped, pointing an accusatory finger. “You aren’t fine! Keep this up and you won’t be able to drive _or_ walk and your stupid bike won’t let me do anything and then we’ll _all_ be stranded!”

Shasta ducked his head, cowed. Tending the injury for his own sake seemed selfish-- a waste of precious time; he hadn’t considered how ignoring it could hurt the others. He let her guide him to the edge of the fountain. She stuck her hand in. Water lapped the sides. “Sit.”

“Headlight, Bree?” he said. A harsh light washed over the two of them as he dropped onto the ledge, groaning. It had just been a scrape, right? How had it gotten this bad? The wound felt like it had been salted. He bit his tongue as Aravis peeled up his pant leg and inhaled sharply. Dried blood smeared from his knee to his mud-streaked ankle. The whole area was crusted with dirt and gravel and sticky blood. He touched the tight skin, feeling nauseous. It felt hot.

“Your leg is _filthy_ ,” she said. “Do you ever bathe?” He was too queasy to take offense. “We need to clean it.” He nodded, lowering his leg into the pool, letting water lap over his injury. The water was lukewarm and less than a meter deep. Heavenly. With a splash, he let his whole body slip in. 

“Rinse the dirt out of the wound and then prop your foot up here,” Aravis ordered, slapping the now-wet ledge. He bent forward and gasped.

“Can’t reach.”

“You can’t reach your own leg?”

“Give me-- give me a minute and it’ll be less stiff,” he said. “Probably.” He sank back. It felt so nice to be in the water again. He felt buoyant, at ease. Aravis kicked off her boots, shrugged out of her jacket, and splashed into the pool beside him. Catching his heel, she began brushing gravel from his wound. The touch was so unexpected he nearly kicked her.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

She ducked her head. “It’s not going to clean itself, is it?”

“You don’t need to--”

“Just hold still,” she said, her grip firm on his heel. “Please.” He relented, trying to relax his leg. She rubbed the scrape, loosening the crust of dried dirt and blood. Her touch _tickled._ Frowning, she pulled the scarf from her waist and began scrubbing layers of grime off his skin. He winced.

“You don’t have to use your scarf.”

“It was dirty already.” She tossed it over the edge of the pool and lifted his leg from the water. It was cleaner than it had been in a while. It felt better, too. The actual injury was smaller than it had looked under smeared blood; the water and her ministrations had already taken the edge off the pain. “Do you have any bandages?” she asked, eyes fixed on the scrape.

“In Bree’s cargo rack,” he said. She dropped his heel and clambered out of the pool, returning with his towel and a roll of fabric. He lifted his foot onto the ledge so she could bandage it. He didn’t know what else to do. 

She dried his leg and wrapped it neatly, then patted it. He almost thought she was smiling. “There. Keep it clean and it should heal within a few days.”

“Thanks,” he said. She shrugged, and her expression turned unreadable.

“The AI was right,” she said. “I’m not so stupid I’ll sabotage my only ally.”

As dawn approached, Shasta tried to sleep before they had to return to the road, but found he couldn’t get comfortable. He rolled one way and his neck twisted; he rolled the other way and the uneven pavement dug into his hip, and now his leg was starting to hurt again. He wiggled over to the side of the pool and let his injured leg fall into the water with a quiet splash. A few meters away, Aravis’ head lifted.

“Are you still awake?” she whispered.

“Can’t sleep,” he whispered back.

“Does your leg hurt?”

“Not much,” he said. It was strange trying to fall asleep without the sound of the fisherman’s snore or the creaking of hammocks or the lap of water against the rusting struts of the flooded seascraper. Too quiet. Here, the only sound was the breeze over ruins and the soft sound of Aravis’ breathing. “How did you know about this place?”

She propped herself up on her elbows. “That’s my story and not yours,” she said. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“What about as pay-back for the ride?” he tried.

“That was in exchange for me not shooting you and stealing your stuff.”

“But I didn’t leave you by outpost 37.”

“And I told you how to find this place. We’re even,” she pointed out.

“You shot a hole in my water bottle!”

“And I bandaged your leg,” she countered. “What are you trying to prove? That we’re friends?” She said the last bit with unnecessary disdain. The words echoed sharply in the heavy night air. It was stupid of Shasta to be insulted-- they weren’t friends, he didn’t even want to be her friend, he was glad to be rid of her in a few days-- but to hear it put so baldly stung. They had seemed to finally be getting along tonight. 

Maybe she realized how her words had come out, because she sighed. “Look, it-- it just doesn’t concern you.” He stared into the night sky, silently. The stars looked the same here as from the seascraper roof. That was nice. He didn’t know what exactly a real friendship looked like-- the speeders and the seagulls he encountered weren’t very companionable, and the fisherman was out of the question-- but he had the feeling there had to be trust involved. And as long as Aravis felt the need to keep her gun on hand to make sure he upheld his side of the bargain, he didn’t see how either of them could call it a friendship. Shasta indulged in a moment of self-pity. He had to be the only person in the empire who didn’t have a single friend.

Then he shoved the thought aside. It didn’t do to wallow. By the look of the stars overhead, they had less than an hour until dawn. Soon the first traces of gray would lighten the east. Aravis stirred. He tilted his head again, watching her pull on her jacket and lace on her boots. The pistol glinted in her waistband.

“Going somewhere?” Shasta said, trying to sound haughty and unconcerned. It didn’t work.

“Scouting the area,” she said, pulling back her wild curls. “The longer we stay here, the more nervous I get.”

Shasta frowned. That didn’t sound good. “Is there something we should know?”

“I don’t want to lie to you,” she said, avoiding his gaze. “But that-- it still isn’t part of your story.” She chose her words like she was picking a path over rotten boards. Shasta wasn’t sure whether to be pleased that she was being considerate or suspicious at the information she was hiding. “Just, if something happens--” she hesitated. Shasta held his breath. She reconsidered. “Never mind. Stay here-- I’ll be back by dawn.” As she passed Bree, she snatched the water bottle from his cargo trunk.

“You aren’t going to report us to anyone, right?” he called after her, the scales in his mind tipping towards suspicion.

“Maybe,” she said, taking a swig and raising the bottle in salute. “But we’d be riding double to prison.”

Shasta rolled over and nestled his face into his arms. That did nothing to assuage his doubts. Maybe he should run after her, demanding more information. But instead he sat up grudgingly and crawled over to Bree, plastering his fingers against the nav screen. It lit up. “Aravis is gone,” he said.

“Is she coming back?” Bree asked.

“I hope so, she took my water bottle.” He brushed sand off the curves of the bike. Aravis had been right that morning when she said there was a kickstand hidden behind the exhaust pipe. He jiggled the pipe.

“Do you trust her?” the AI asked.

Their conversation looped in Shasta’s mind. I don’t owe you an explanation. What are you trying to prove? That we’re friends? And then just now. I don’t want to lie to you. But that still isn’t part of your story. “Why?” he asked, avoiding the question.

The AI buzzed. “I’m a computer program stuck in enemy territory, surrounded by unpredictable humans. I need trustworthy help, but your guess is far better than mine when it comes to who might provide it.”

“That’s a good answer.”

“Thank you,” the AI said. “You agreed to let Aravis join us, and made the decision quickly, too, which saved us time and trouble. Then, you followed her directions to this shelter and allowed her to tend your leg.”

“I guess--” Shasta said.

“But,” it interrupted. “Do these show that you have faith in her good intentions, or just that you take the path of least resistance?” Shasta’s mouth flapped shut. He didn’t like these questions. If it became easier to doubt or undermine or even betray Aravis than to continue their alliance, would that be for the best? And if so, would that say more about her, or him?

He emptied the last of fish jerky into his hand and stuffed it in his mouth. “We’re almost out of food.”

“What a blatant change of subject. It’s alright if you’re not sure, Shasta. If you think you’re confused by people-- I’m even more so,” the AI said. He wasn’t sure about that. “But please consider the question. The safety of Narnia could depend on your judgment.”

“About that,” he said. _There_ was a topic he wanted to hear more about. “When you said friends of Narnia were all heroes and famous people and all that-- doesn’t that just make it more likely that my fingerprints there by mistake?”

“It’s not a mistake.”

“But it’s only been three nights and I keep screwing up and getting hurt and--”

“It’s _not_ a mistake.”

Shasta scooted over to the bike’s cargo rack and began re-packing. The task couldn’t keep him occupied for long. He turned back towards the nav screen. “But what if, when I get to the embassy, they turn me away?”

“After all the aid you gave them? Shasta.” The AI’s voice was quiet, almost gentle. “You may not have met many, but there _are_ good people in the world. You are one of them. The Narnians will see that, and honor it.”

A weight on Shasta’s heart eased. Then a droning sound cut off any chance for further questions. A motorcycle engine, buzzing closer. “Volume off,” he ordered, leaping to his feet. The motion sent pain shooting through his leg. Fear seized him once more. Had Aravis told on them? She had all but admitted it as she left, but he thought it was a joke-- _stupid,_ just letting her walk out-- he pulled down the damp leg of his speeder uniform, yanked on his boots, trying to match the spit-shined image of a speeder in his head. He looked a _mess,_ sleeves wrinkled, hair tangled, dust all over his shoes. Then it was too late to do anything as a speeder blew into the garden, cutting a sharp curve and roaring to a halt beside him.

“Sir!” Shasta said. Which seemed like the wrong thing for a speeder to say to greet an equal but he didn’t know what to say and then the speeder pulled off his headscarf and he didn’t have words at all. He thought Aravis had eagle-sharp features-- this man looked like he would tear him to shreds.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

Shasta gaped. Think of something for the _love of all things holy_ there must be _some_ excuse he could wring out of his _tiny little pea-sized brain--_ “Bithersee,” he said, spitting the word out like something sour. “I’m on my way to Bithersee.”

“You’re heading across the sea?” the speeder asked, eyes narrowing.

“Yessir-- no, sir,” he said. If the speeder was going the same direction, it would be rapidly obvious that he lied when he was nowhere to be found on the single highway. “There was a report of trouble that I’m going to investigate.” That fell under a speeder’s responsibilities, right? When a census taker had driven off the cliffs a few years ago, the first responder was a speeder. And there had certainly been trouble near Bithersee recently. Mostly theft. By him. _Don’t look guilty_.

“I’m looking for a girl who’s gone missing,” he said. “Have you seen anyone?”

First thought-- _deny deny deny._ Second thought-- how had the speeder found them? Aravis seemed sure that no one came here when they’d stopped that night. “Could you describe her, sir?” he said, his voice strangled. If she had ratted them out-- but why would the speeder question him, like a cat playing with its prey? Sweat beaded on his forehead.

“Tall, bony, black hair. She wears a big leather jacket and a purple scarf.” Could this be a test? One last chance to prove his loyalty before he was carted away? But maybe the speeder really didn’t know and then he would give them up for nothing, maybe he was looking for another girl… “Her name is Aravis al-Layth.” Shasta stood stock-still in the gray morning light, barely able to breathe.

And then he saw Aravis herself, over the speeder’s shoulder, wide-eyed in the gateway. In her arms, she held a bundle of fabric and greens. She looked like every nightmare had come to hunt her. She caught his eye and shook her head, begging.

Slowly, Shasta let out his breath. “I don’t think I’ve seen her,” Shasta said, his words inaudible under the chugging of the engine. The speeder punched his bike’s nav screen and the bike sputtered off.

“What?”

“I haven’t seen her,” Shasta repeated. “I’m sorry, sir.” Aravis disappeared. He swallowed hard, meeting his eyes, daring the speeder to believe him. He had convinced the guard at the last outpost. He had fooled Aravis when they first met. For a moment, he thought he had persuaded this speeder, too.

Then the speeder’s eyes shifted from Shasta to a spot behind him, and his expression turned stony. “If you haven’t seen her, why is her scarf there?” Shasta turned and saw Aravis’ dusk-purple scarf twisted in the dirt where she had been lying, the end fluttering in the breeze. His stomach dropped like a rock.

“I-- a girl sold it to me--”

“Emeth!” The speeder whirled. Aravis had reappeared in the gateway, her bundle twisted into a knapsack tied around her shoulders. Her gun pointed straight at the speeder’s chest.

“Aravis!” he cried. Was that anger in his voice? Relief? While he focused on her, Shasta hauled Bree upright and tapped the screen, ready to flee at a moment’s notice. “We’ve been looking for you for three days!”

“I’m not going home,” she insisted, taking a step towards him.

“This isn’t a _joke,”_ he snapped. “They need you back in a week or the whole thing’s off.”

“Good.” She cocked the pistol with a _click._ “Now get out.”

He stood, kicking out the bike’s stand and taking a step towards her. “Put the gun down.”

“Don’t you take another step,” she hissed. Every muscle in Shasta’s body was tensed.

“Ara, _please_ ,” the speeder begged. “This isn’t just about _you_. This is for the whole family.”

“Easy for you to say! Why do I have to sacrifice everything for the family while you go do as you please, speeding off into the sunset and playing the hero? Don’t you _dare_ take another step Emeth!” The gun quivered in her hand. Her eyes were wild, but there was something in the set of her jaw... _she has a plan_ , Shasta realized. 

“I know you’re not going to shoot,” the speeder said slowly. “You and I both know that. So why don’t you put the gun down and then we can talk this out, like adults.”

“But I’m _not_ an adult,” she said, sounding almost petulant.

“And that’s why you won’t shoot,” Emeth said.

Aravis’ grip relaxed. “Fine.” Her words seemed to pain her. “You’re right. I won’t.” The gun sank. Then _bang._ She put a bullet between Emeth’s feet, making him jump, and her burning gaze met Shasta’s. “But he will. Shasta!” And then she did the absolute _last_ thing he expected-- she threw the gun in a high and gleaming arc over Emeth’s head. The world seemed to slow to a crawl as it hung in the air, reflecting the first rays of morning sun. Emeth’s eyes went round, tracing its path. The gun thumped to the ground next to Shasta. Emeth lurched off his motorcycle towards it. After a split-second hesitation Shasta snatched the handgun from the ground, heart thudding like it would burst from his ribs, and fumbled with it as unsteadily as a boat in a storm. Behind him, Aravis leapt towards the speeder’s abandoned motorcycle. The speeder stopped short, hands flying up, as Shasta aimed at him. Aravis reached into her knapsack. When the speeder saw that Shasta couldn’t even cock the gun he surged forward again, and was nailed in the head with Shasta’s water bottle. He crumpled. “Shasta, go!” Aravis shouted, straddling the motorcycle and punching a code into the keypad. Bree and the speeder’s bike rumbled to life together. The speeder’s head lifted. Shasta stuffed the gun into his pocket with sweaty hands and roared out of the garden. A second later, Aravis shot out after him.

“Bree, where are we going?” he asked, heart pounding in his throat. He could hardly think over the roar in his ears.

“What just happened?” the AI demanded. “Where’s Aravis?”

“I don’t know what happened!” Shasta risked a glance back at Aravis. “I think she just stole a speeder’s bike!”

“So did you--”

“Right in front of him! She threatened him with her gun--” Shasta said, then a thought hit him.

“That does seem to be her favorite problem-solving strategy,” Bree said. Shasta wasn’t listening. Aravis’ pistol was heavy in his baggy pocket. If he left her behind, she couldn’t stop him. _This is my chance,_ said one half of him. _That’s trust,_ said the other. 

Aravis pulled up beside him, hair whipping like tattered banners in a gale.

“That was insane!” she shouted over the noise of the wind. “I didn’t know if we were going to make it out!” 

“I can’t believe we did!” Residual panic pitched his voice higher than normal. But the feeling was melting, replaced with a rising tide of relief, fizzing froth-light through his chest, and he let the thought of abandoning her slip away. “You’re nuts!” he laughed.

“I know!” Then she was laughing too, the noise startling and carefree. The walls of the garden had vanished behind them, and the sky was pale as seafoam. The road ahead stretched empty into the hazy distance. Aravis let out a shrill whoop.

Bree’s monotone cut in. “Did the speeder see your faces?”

“He knew Aravis already,” Shasta shouted. At the sound of her name, she grew somber. “He knows my face now, but not my name.”

“Unless he heard me shout it.” She looked guilty.

He’d forgotten about that. “Hey, remember last night? When you said that you didn’t owe me any explanation?”

A tentative smile tugged at her lips “I owe you an explanation now, don’t I?”

“You _definitely_ owe me an explanation now!”

“I know, I know!”

“So who was that? And what did he want?”

“That was my brother.” She slowed, the roar of her engine softening, and he matched her pace. “And he wanted to take me home so I could be married to Kidrash al-Assad, the Secretary of Petroleum in a week.” Shasta swerved, the auto-stabilizer jerking him before he toppled.

“ _Married_? How old are you?”

“In a week? Sixteen. I’ll be legal for him then.” Her knuckles were white as she gripped the handlebars. “He’s the second-most powerful man in the empire, after the emperor himself. But he’s not young, and all the power in the world won’t give him immortality. He doesn’t have any children. My father would rather shoot me where I stand than let me cost him this alliance.”

“Who is your father?” Bree cut in.

“Kidrash ibn Rishti ibn Ilsombreh al-Layth, Secretary of Defense,” she recited.

“Master of Calavar?”

“That’s the one.”

Shasta seized on the familiar name. “Calavar? Isn’t that where we are now?” Aravis nodded, releasing her death-grip on the handlebars for a second to gesture at the desert spread around them like a sea of sand.

“All this-- everything you see-- belongs to my father. You wondered how I knew these roads? I’ve ridden them my whole life.” Her face was fierce. “If this place is a cage, I’ve paced every centimeter of it.”

“So you ran away?”

“I only heard about the arrangement…” she paused, counting under her breath. “...eight days ago. The first three days, I wailed and pleaded and made a nuisance of myself. My father ignored me. The next two days, I tried to bargain with him. That too, failed. So that night I escaped.”

“Without a motorcycle?” Bree asked.

She shook her head. “My father had already changed the keypads so my fingerprints didn’t work. He would take no chance.”

“So you just walked?” Shasta said. Eight minus three minus two, minus the day they had spent together… she had spent two days wandering blindly in the wilderness. “Did you have water or food or anything?”

“Only what I could carry,” she said.

“Weren’t you afraid of running out?”

“I did,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “If I didn’t find a ride or reach a waystation within five days, I wasn’t going to die of thirst. I would put a bullet through my head before I married Kidrash.”

There was no doubt in her voice. Despite the heat of the rising sun, Shasta shivered. “What were you going to do when you reached the capital?”

“I thought I might be able to contract myself as a speeder. I wouldn’t be allowed to marry for eight years, if I took the longest possible contract, and I might spend most of that time beyond the borders. Or, Kidrash might have me assigned as his personal envoy.” Her voice was icy. “Once Emeth reports me, it won’t matter anyway.”

“How long do you think that’ll take?” Bree asked.

She considered. “He’ll make it home tomorrow morning, probably. He has to tell father first, but then… by sundown tomorrow, he’ll have told his superior that his sister and a speeder impersonator are on the roads, and it’s pure luck if an official doesn’t know of us.”

“That’s fantastic,” Shasta muttered.

“I really didn’t think anyone would look for me there,” Aravis said, shoulders sagging. He wrestled with the urge to blame her. But it was _his_ injury that had stopped them--they shared the blame.

“You got us out of there,” he managed. “So we’re even.”

She tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “You really aren’t so bad, Shasta.”

“You honor me, my lady,” he said, imitating the fisherman’s slimiest tone. She snorted. A gust of hot wind ruffled his hair. “Bree, what are you thinking?”

“Aravis has provided some interesting information,” the AI said. “We cannot reach the capital by sundown tomorrow. It’s impossible. But we _may_ reach the gates by the time they open the next morning, if you can drive through the night.”

“What are you doing in the capital?” Aravis asked, gaze flickering up from the road ahead.

“Bree? Do you want to explain?” Shasta said, cautious of sharing too much. The nav screen flickered.

“Unfortunately, she doesn’t have the clearance for that,” Bree said. “Nor can I authorize you to share confidential information.”

“I understand,” Aravis said quickly.

“But--” the AI’s voice was swallowed by static for a moment. “I cannot command you not to share _your_ story, Shasta.” That sounded like the closest thing to permission the AI could give him, so Shasta told her of growing up in the seascraper, of his first encounter with Bree, and the first part of their travels. He was acutely aware of how shabby the surroundings and situations he described must seem to her, who must be used to as much grandeur as their new world could offer, but she listened thoughtfully and without comment.

“So you’re going to the Narnian embassy?” she said when he finished.

“Hopefully.”

“I’d heard of Narnia before. I thought it was an experimental city, like the ones the empire absorbed a few years ago. I didn’t realize it had survived this long.”

“It’ll survive a good while longer,” Bree said. “As long as we succeed.”

“I can’t _believe_ you threw my water bottle at your brother,” Shasta said. His throat was sandpaper rough from the dry air. They had paused for a break under the canopy of a ruined roadside building. He sounded out the words painted on the brick wall: G-a-s s-t-a-t-i-o-n. Unlike some pre-Fever gas stations, this one had been left to fade instead of being converted into a speeder outpost. A faint smell of gasoline lingered about the dry pumps.

Aravis grimaced. “It was the only thing heavy enough. I’d just refilled-- oh, that reminds me! I had gone to raid some stores my brother and I hid in the basement in one of the mansions.” She slipped her scarf-turned-knapsack off her back.

“Emeth?” Shasta slouched on Bree, letting the breeze dry the dampness from his neck and underarms.

She shook her head. “My eldest brother. He was a speeder, too, before-- well, I saw that someone had been there recently and headed back. But I might have something that’ll help.” Unfolding the bundle, she offered him a brightly-colored jelly orb. “Try this. It’s ninety percent water, I think.”

He popped it in his mouth. The orb burst, wet and fruity. “It’s sweet!”

She laughed. “It’s nothing special. Here, hold this.” She handed him the bundle of fabric and began digging through the tiny cargo rack of the speeder bike.

“It is for me.” The bundle mostly consisted of jelly orbs, with some flaky yellow bars.

“He has water!” Aravis called, lifting a plastic canteen. “And noodles, and peanut butter, and crackers, and--” She gasped. “Honey bread! _Bless_ Emeth.”

“She threatened to shoot him this morning,” Shasta muttered to Bree.

“Oh, shut up,” she said, waving a chunk of golden bread at him. “Eat this and you’ll understand.” Snatching the sticky treat from her hand, he shoved it in his mouth. His face went soft.

“Ah.”

She grinned. “Honey bread, food of the gods themselves. How’s your leg feeling?”

“Oh.” He rubbed it. “A lot better. Still a little sore, but that’s it.”

She pinched a chunk of honey bread from the loaf and chewed reflectively. “My gas tank is still half full. Bree, will you need to stop for gas any time soon?”

“Shasta, could you check?” the AI said. He brushed the crumbs from his fingers and popped open the gas tank, squinting in. Aravis’s brows knitted.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking the gas level.” Shasta pulled the screwdriver from his pocket and stuck it in the tank, watching how much metal disappeared under the surface.

“With… with a screwdriver?”

“The AI isn’t connected to it. I think-- just under half a tank-- this is weird, but it looks like the whole gas-tank/engine apparatus had to be replaced recently and they did a bad job.”

“Is that true, Bree?”

“Classified,” the AI said. “Half a tank each will get us near outpost 12, which is still a couple hundred kilometers from the capital. However, if you ride double and leave the other bike here, we can make it the whole way without refuelling. That’s assuming Aravis still wants to go to the capital.”

She tipped her head, letting her dark hair fall over her face, clinging to her sweat-damp neck. “I have a friend there that might shelter me for days, or weeks.”

“And after that?” Bree probed. She pressed her lips together. “Will your family look for you in the capital?”

“First they will search the villages of Calavar. Next, the capital. There are only so many places one can fly with clipped wings.”

“Would it be wiser to head somewhere else, then? To prolong their search?”

“I would need half the rations,” she said.

“And what would you do when those run out?” Shasta asked, uneasy.

She brushed the hair back, tapping her temples. “I would need my gun back, too.”

A sour taste rose in his mouth, despite the honey. He pressed his hand against the metallic bulk of her pistol, still pulling at his pocket. “No.”

She shrugged. “I’m going to need it eventually.”

“No-- wait.” He didn’t know why his heart was thumping so loud. There had to be a route that didn’t end with her _death._ “Bree, you said the Narnians were good people. Wouldn’t they take her in, too?”

“I think there’s a good chance,” the AI said.

“There!” Shasta said. He pointed at her. “Bree and I will vouch for you at the embassy. If they take us, they have to take you, too. Come to the capital with us.”

She cocked her head. The light reflecting from the pavement threw gold glints in her eyes. “And what if they say no?”

“The second we’re in danger, I’ll give you back your gun. Promise. But you have to swear not to try anything stupid.”

She scoffed. “I would never.” His eyebrows shot up.

“Promise?”

“I’ll come with you to the capital and not try anything stupid,” she said, offering her hand. He took it, helping her to her feet. “I promise.”


	5. At the Gates of Tashbaan

They ate their fill of honey bread and peanut-butter-crackers and then set about transferring gasoline; using rubber tubing ripped from a dry gas pump, they managed the job with no more sweating and spilling and bickering than absolutely necessary. Shasta plopped onto Bree’s seat, wiping oil across his uniform.

“You’ve covered your tracks?” Bree asked.

“I’ll hide Emeth’s bike,” Aravis said, patting the fender wistfully. “No point in leaving it out to draw attention.” She hauled the motorcycle into the broken-down gas station and emerged with dust-covered boots. “All set.” She climbed onto the bike behind him. Shasta tapped the nav screen and the engine sputtered, then died.

His heart skipped a beat. “Bree?” He thumped the bike’s side and keyed in his fingerprint again. The engine roared to life. He let out a sigh of relief, wrapping his fingers around the handlebars, and they shot out of the gas station’s shade into the burning sunlight. 

“What just happened?” Aravis demanded, peering over his shoulder.

“The engine’s output is uneven,” Bree said. “I’m running diagnostics, but--”

“But it’s probably no big deal?” Shasta guessed.

“I wasn’t going to say that.” There was a pregnant pause. “Anyway, it’s 10:28 now. To arrive at the capital gate the day after tomorrow, we can only spend about three hours not-driving. That’s three hours for all our stops.” Shasta gave a low whistle. “Pay attention to whether you’re getting thirsty, hungry or tired. Aravis, you know more about the dangers of exhaustion and highway hypnosis than Shasta.”

“I’ll keep him awake,” she said. “But are you _sure_ I can’t drive?”

“Sure, just let me override my programming for you.”

“That sounds like a no to me,” Shasta said. “Pass me a cracker?”

 

_time 10:31_

“Make sure you’re shifting your gaze every few minutes,” Aravis instructed, crunching on crackers behind him. “What’s your favorite color?”

“What does that have to do with driving hypnosis?”

“Talking keeps you alert. That’s why speeders are always jabbering away on their radio. If Emeth hadn’t been trying to be stealthy, you can bet he would have been gossiping with his co-workers when he found you. Favorite color?”

He squinted at the sun-drenched road ahead. “Maybe… a sort of honey-gold?”

 

_time 10:35_

“Would you rather live in the mountains or by the ocean?”

“Mountains,” he said immediately.

“That was a stupid question, wasn’t it?”

 

_time 14:03_

When Shasta returned to the bike after their first stop that evening, Aravis spat out a mouthful of uncooked pasta.  “Don’t eat that,” she advised, sticking her pasta-specked tongue out when he grinned. “Are you ready?”

He splashed water over his face, hiding a smile. “Good to go.” Then they were off again. The sky faded blue to gold to gauzy pink, and then the light seeped away and stars began to emerge, softening the jagged silhouette of the mountains rising on the horizon. Back home-- back at the seascraper-- he rarely had the chance to just watch the sun set. Daylight wasn’t for the wasting, the fisherman said. What a lovely thing, to be able to waste time on sunsets.

He yawned. The white thread that wound across Bree’s nav screen looked like it would take them to the foothills of the mountains at least. A cool wind pulled his sleeves; the heat of day faded quickly from dry inland air. It didn’t smell of brine. He hadn’t noticed where the breeze stopped carrying the scent of salt.

 

_time 15:48_

“Uh, fifteen or sixteen, I think? The fisherman took me in almost fourteen years ago, but I was already a year or two old by then.”

“Do you have any memories from before then?”

He thought back to the earliest sounds and shapes he had filed away. “The first thing I remember is... the ocean, I think. All glittering and smelling of fish. When I was little I kept crawling into the water when the fisherman wasn’t looking. If I hadn’t been such a fat little baby I probably would…” A memory surfaced: scraps of deep green, darker than algae or swaying beds of kelp. He tried to focus on the image and it vanished, scattering like a shoal of fish. He couldn’t think of anything that color.

“You probably would what?” Aravis asked.

He shook his head to clear it. “Would’ve drowned. The fisherman didn’t like babies much.”

“He adopted you, didn’t he?”

“Because he would get promoted for community service, not because he wanted a kid.”

“That’s awful.”

“It’s life,” he said, shrugging.

 

_time 17:15_

“No, it’s definitely a real place,” Shasta insisted. “I had that picture pasted next to the hammock for years. When the trap door was open a square of light slid across it at sunrise.”

“Maybe it _was_. But it had to have been an old picture. There aren’t that many trees in one place anywhere, now. They disappeared with the coasts, and the reefs, and the oil fields.”

A shadowy sea of branches rippled in Shasta’s memory. “Bree, is that true? There aren’t any giant tree wilds left?”

“Forests,” Bree said. “That’s what they called them.” Shasta’s chest felt hollow, all of a sudden.

“They’re gone?”

 

_time 0:00_

“It’s midnight,” Bree said. Shasta startled to attention. “We’ve made good time so far. I’ve been processing environmental input slowly; I suspect the speeder’s override attempts when I was captured are the cause. Otherwise, all functions seem to be holding up. Have you both been staying hydrated?”

“Yes, sir,” Shasta said.

 

_time 1:56_

“How many jelly orbs do you think you could fit in your mouth at once?”

“Probably, like, two,” he said.

“Pshh, coward. I could fit at least four.”

“Wow, that’s such a useful life skill, congratulations.”

 

_time 3:08_

“Did you see that shooting star?” Aravis rose in her seat, pointing at the vast and velvety sky. The sudden motion nearly tipped them both.

“Whatever you just did, stop,” Bree ordered. She dropped back down.

 

_time 3:22_

“One more,” Aravis urged. Shasta tilted his head and half-opened his mouth. A slimy orb slipped out and burst on his pants and he closed it again. “Open your mouth,” she said, bumping his chipmunk-stuffed cheek with a fourth orb.

“Hop vat!” He bit down and swallowed the remaining orbs. “You win, you win!”

“Reigning champ,” she said smugly.

“Big mouth.”

 

_time 4:13_

“I assume you cut your hair yourself?”

“When it would get in my eyes--”

“Can I touch it?”

“Uh, I guess?” Her prodding fingers raised the hairs on the nape of his neck.

She _tsked._ “It’s so tangled.” Her fingers caught a knot, brushing through it roughly. “We could’ve washed it in the fountain last night.” The unfamiliar feeling of fingers combing through his hair raised goosebumps along his scalp.

 

_time 4:54_

“Do you have a secret hunch about how you’ll die?”

He snorted. “It’ll probably be your fault, for one thing.”

“Really?”

“Well, I hope not! Why?”

“My mom hated riding motorcycles because she always knew she’d die in a crash.”

“Did she?”

“Yes.” Aravis’s fingers still brushed absently through his hair. “It’ll probably be a bullet for me. Hopefully it’ll be because I’m fighting for something, not giving up on something. You don’t have to answer seriously if you don’t know.”

“I’ve always thought it’ll be a hurricane,” he said.

“The sky’s clear tonight,” she said.

He nodded. “And no one’s shooting yet.”

 

_time 5:18_

“First thing you’ll do when you reach the Narnian embassy?”

Shasta considered. “Find someone with the clearance to figure out how my metrics are in Bree’s database. Not that I’m complaining, but--”

“Why do you think you’re in there?”

“Maybe it was another one of Bree’s glitches. The speeder that stole him messed him up somehow. I really don’t know.”

“You’ve never been to Narnia?”

“I’d never even heard of it,” he said earnestly.

 

_time 5:39_

Shasta was trying _so hard_ not to relax, to stay alert, but everything that should have kept him tense-- the hum of the engine, the wind in his ears, the sing-song of Aravis’ voice, the warmth of touch-- instead melted the tension from his body until his shoulders sagged and his lids hung heavy.

 

_time 6:02_

“Shasta.” Aravis shook him roughly from his reverie. “Pull over.”

“We don’t have time to waste--” Bree objected.

“Give him a minute to stretch! He’s exhausted.”

Shasta yawned, so wide that his eyes blurred with tears, smudging the rising mountain road into a fog of shadows. “We need to get there on time…”

“You’re slurring like a drunkard,” she said. “I _know_ you haven’t slept well in two days and you’ve been driving for eighteen hours, at least.”

“Okay, okay.” He let the motorcycle slow to a halt in the middle of the road and sat their blinking. She prodded his back. 

“Up. Stretch your legs.” He dismounted and staggered, almost falling. He twisted, feeling blood rush through his stiff legs and butt. Aravis followed, pulling him away from Bree.

“I have an idea,” she whispered.

“Bree’s not going to let you drive,” he said immediately.

Her eyes flickered to the bike, irritated. “Stubborn AI. But all it reads are fingerprints and weight. If you keyed in your fingerprint and then let me sit in front… you probably don’t trust me. But I promised to go to the capital, and I’ll get us there safely.”

Shasta rubbed his eyes. He was _exhausted_ , and getting off the bike and stretching did less to help than he’d hoped. It was worth a try. He nodded. They crossed to Bree and Shasta tapped the nav screen, then let Aravis slide on in front of him. She revved the engine and gave him a silent thumbs-up. Hands on the handlebars, she accelerated-- and the engine died after a few feet.

“Aravis, you aren’t authorized to drive,” Bree said. Aravis twisted to look at Shasta, jerking her chin at the nav screen.

“Uh, what makes you think she’s driving?” Shasta said. “Because it is not her. It’s me. I’m driving.” Aravis cringed.

“The foam of the handlebars registers grip, O Clever Ones. I appreciate Shasta is tired, and he’s not operating at maximum capacity. But I _can’t_ override my programming. Only one of you is authorized to drive; if Shasta’s hands aren’t on the handlebars, we’re not going anywhere.” _Shoot._ Aravis frowned.

“Is it okay if I at least put my hands on the handlebars next to his?” Aravis asked.

“You’re not authorized to drive.”

“And I wouldn’t be! Just resting my hands.”

Bree processed the question, text scrolling across the screen. “That would be allowed.”

Aravis raised her eyebrows at Shasta. He wasn’t sure where she was going with this. “Shasta, hands,” she whispered. He held out his hands, confused, and she tugged them towards the handlebars.

“Oh!” He scooted forward. For him to reach, she had to sit at the front of the seat and he was so close to her that his breath made her hair flutter. Heat radiated from her back. She grabbed the handlebars just inside his grip. 

“Are you comfortable?” she asked, not looking back to face him. If she did, they’d probably bump noses.

“I’m fine,” he said. Exhaustion must be messing with his mind; he could hardly think straight. “If you’re okay with…” He couldn’t think of the word he needed. “This.”

“It’s nothing,” she said, starting the engine.

 

_time 11:11_

His hands still curled loosely around the handlebars when he woke up. He’d slumped against Aravis, the rise and fall of her breathing rocking him like a boat in harbor. It felt so natural that it took a drowsy moment before he realized that _he was slumped against Aravis_ \-- his chin over her shoulder, his cheek to her pulse, his heart beating against her shoulder blade, fit together like gears that had been nudged into the right place.

“Are you awake?” she whispered, straightening. He pulled himself upright, face burning. 

“Uh-huh.” He couldn’t name the feeling fluttering in his lungs. Not fear, not exhaustion-- something light and fizzy as seafoam. He didn’t know if he wanted to meet her eyes. He was intensely grateful she didn’t see how his face fell when she scooted forward immediately, cool morning air stealing the scorching heat from the space that opened between them. “How long was I asleep?” _Why didn’t you shake me off? Did you notice that we fit together like puzzle pieces?_ He swallowed every stupid question that begged to be asked. He knew-- they _both_ knew-- this would end the moment they reached safety, whatever _this_ was.

“A few hours,” she said, nodding at the road ahead. The sky was bright, but his sleep-blurred eyes turned everything soft. They banked a curve and she leaned against his arms, and his skin seemed to tingle where they touched. “I suppose you want a turn driving?”

“No,” he said, then made a face. “I mean, if you’re tired--” The bike sputtered and began to slow. Aravis swore.

“Oh dear, it appears that Aravis VERBALLY ADMITTED to being the one driving,” Bree said. Shasta realized guiltily that he had almost forgotten about the AI. “Still not allowed, kids. Switch back.” The bike rolled to a stop and Shasta released the handlebars, his fingers stiff, so Aravis could climb off. She grabbed his shoulder as he slid forward. She had bags under her eyes, lips pursed.

“Are you feeling better?” she asked.

“A lot better.”

 

_time 13:43_

The silence between them seemed to stiffen with the heat of day. Shasta drove again, and Aravis tossed him a few questions and told a few stories, but the easy spring of conversation from the night before had dried. He tried to keep his eyes on the road but they kept straying to the peaks rose like the bows of shipwrecks around them, so solid, so _massive_ , that he could hardly believe they were real.

 

_time 17:36_

“Is the capital in the mountains?” Shasta asked, through lips dry from a brisk wind. The road was steep and winding, but more even and well-maintained than any other section they’d driven.

“Just past them,” Bree said. “Protected by mountains on one said and the floodplain on the other.”

“Why would they build it next to a _floodplain?”_

“On a plateau overlooking it,” Aravis corrected. Shasta’s ears pricked at her voice-- distracted, but not irritated. Not that she had any reason to be irritated with him, but-- he shook his head as if he could derail his train of thought. “It’s the most defensible city left on earth. Every road through the mountains could be crawling with speeders at a moment’s notice. And trying to invade from the floodplains is suicide. No gasoline, no outposts, no resupply. And if a storm hits while you’re out in the open? You’re dead.”

On the other hand, maybe focusing on her words wasn’t a smashing good idea either. “So, say, if _we’re_ on these roads when Emeth’s news hits…”

“Current speed has us at the city gates in less than twenty-four hours,” Bree said.

“...we’d be toast.”

“So would we be able to hide? Just exactly how much treason did we commit?”

“I personally vote we go out guns blazing.”

“No,” Bree said firmly.

“Fine, I’ll distract them while you two zoom off. Hopefully my father will have posted a bounty on my head by now. That’ll get their attention.”

“Did you just say you hoped your dad put a bounty on your head?” Shasta demanded.

“You should hope so too, it’ll keep the heat off of you if we’re discovered! Think about it.”

“I’m glad we’ve found a use for you: speeder bait,” he said, cracking a smile. Poking fun at her was one reliable way of drawing her into conversation, like poking someone for attention. As he planned, she bristled in mock indignation.

“ _Par_ don _me,_ that’s not my only use-- I’ve been passing you snacks all morning.”

His spirit lifted at the teasing lilt in her voice. “You’ve been snacking all morning, that’s what you’ve done. I don’t think one in ten crackers you get from cargo has reached me.”

“Well, it’s hard work being the brains of the operation.”

“More like the stomach of the operation,” he said.

Aravis snorted. “Hey, Bree, I bet if we dumped Shasta, we’d burn less fuel.”

“Hey!”

The nav screen, which had brightened at the AI’s name, let out a buzz like a sigh. “Behave, children. And if Aravis is right about speeder presence in these mountains, you could afford to quiet down.”

“Alright--”

“Sorry, Bree.”

“--I guess we can keep him.” Shasta rolled his eyes at Aravis’ words.

“How generous,” Bree said tonelessly. “Keeping the apparent brawn of the operation.”

“Shasta?” Aravis snickered. “He’s not the brawn!”

“Bree said to be nice!”

“I would argue that you mischaracterized yourself as the brain, so--”

“Bree’s doing all the real work here, Bree’s the brawn,” Aravis said decidedly. “Shasta has to be the pretty face.”

Shasta’s mind went blank for a response to _that._ Did she-- did she just call him _pretty?_ Aravis poked him, a little too hard. “I mean, not that you’re doing-- you could use a hair cut. I just meant-- you have a nice face. Structure. Good bones.” She patted his face. Could she feel how hot his skin was? He would do anything for Bree to say _something,_ save him from the awkwardness of trying to respond to what must be a poorly executed joke. Bree stayed quiet.

“You have good bones too,” he said, the words running into each other.

“You don’t have to cut your hair if you don’t want to,” she said at the same time. _Just dump me off the bike already,_ he thought.

“Just to be clear,” Bree said, “neither of you are the brains of the operation.”

_time 18:40_

“I hear another bike.” Aravis voice rose sharp over the engine. “Get off the road.”

He veered off without questioning, rolling down the gravelled grade, and skidding to a stop. A second later he heard the hornet’s buzz of an approaching motorcycle. “Take cover,” Bree ordered. Aravis had already leapt off; they dragged Bree behind a boulder and ducked into its shadow, rocks tumbling down the slope beneath them. The buzz rose to a whine and Shasta braced his back against Bree’s hot fender. The speeder shot past, bullet-fast, trailing the scent of smoke. The noise died in the distance.

“I think they’re gone,” Shasta whispered, rising to scan the road.

“Well noticed, Aravis,” said Bree.

“Yeah, nice job,” Shasta said, and he meant it. “I wouldn’t have-- you okay?” She was still folded into the boulder’s shadow, eyes squeezed shut. At his question, she rubbed her eyes and stood slowly.

“Just tired. We should keep going.”

“We can wait a few minutes,” Shasta said. He didn’t know if that was true, but Bree didn’t contradict him.

“No, that would be worse,” she said, shaking her head. “Do you need a hand getting Bree up the slope?” 

“If you don’t mind,” he said. They dragged the bike up over loose rocks that clattered with each footstep. They heaved Bree onto level pavement and Shasta straddled the bike, then saw that the nav screen had gone dark. He tapped it. Nothing. Aravis leaned against the seat. “Come on,” he muttered, rapping his knuckles against the corner. “Are you sure you don’t need a break, though?”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” she said. “Is he acting up?”

“Just a sec--” the screen flickered, then lit up. Shasta rubbed his fingers on the speeder uniform and pressed his fingerprint to the glass.

“Welcome, Shasta.”

“Thank goodness,” Aravis said, climbing on behind him.

“What happened just now, Bree?” Shasta asked, beginning to drive. The little white line on the bike’s map was comforting, even now that the road was unmissable.

“Unsure. I expect I’ll need maintenance once we reach the embassy.”

“Will the Narnians--”

“They won’t blame you,” Bree said.

 

_time 20:05_

The sun set quickly in the mountains. The darkness brought a new dilemma: if Aravis heard a bike before seeing it, they would skid off the road and turn Bree’s headlight off, covering the glow of a nav screen with Aravis’ scarf. But if the road was straight, the other rider would see their beam and become suspicious if they suddenly disappeared.

“We just have to keep going. At this point it’s the safest option,” Shasta said, stifling a yawn.

“I just want to be there already,” Aravis said.

“Six hours,” Bree reported. Aravis groaned. 

“You should sleep,” Shasta said.

“I need to keep a lookout.”

“There’s no point in hiding now,” he said. “They can’t see our faces, and if they had orders to stop every other speeder we would have been caught by now. This is your best chance.”

“You aren’t built to run without rest,” Bree added. “Sleep, Aravis.”

“Tag-teaming is unfair,” she protested.

“What’s unfair is refusing to sleep when it’s your turn,” Shasta said.

Her indignation was unusually inarticulate-- she let out an irritated _hmph!_ but produced no counterargument. He pressed his advantage.

“And you’re grumpy when you’re tired. It’s for all of our benefit, so we don’t murder each other before we get through that gate.”

“I can’t sleep sitting up,” she protested weakly.

There it was. He screwed up his courage, trying desperately to sound nonchalant. “Lean on me,” he offered. “It’s only fair after I sort of… fell asleep on you, earlier.” In her silence, he almost took back his words. Should he not have mentioned that? Had he broken some unspoken agreement? Had he imagined the whole thing?

Then she slipped her arms around his waist and his doubts dissolved. She buried her face in his shoulder, her voice muffled by fabric. “Fine.” Then, so softly the wind nearly whipped it away, she added, “Thank you.”

 

_time 2:52_

“What do you see?” Bree asked.

Shasta slowed, trying to keep his breathing even so as not to disturb Aravis, who slept soundly against him _(another perfect fit),_ snoring. Quiet though it was, he knew the sound would have irritated him endlessly two nights ago. Now he found himself holding back a smile. “Huh?”

“What do you see ahead?”

“Right! Sorry,” he whispered. “Uh, looks like the road levels out for a couple hundred meters, and then slopes away.”

“And past that?”

“Maybe the window of an outpost?”

“Do you see a cluster of lights? Down in the valley?”

His searching eyes found a spark in the distance. “Yes.”

“That should be the capital’s fence.” Shasta’s mouth dropped open. They were _close_. “ETA is three hours out, and the gate will open an hour later, at sun-up.”

“And then we’re there,” Shasta breathed.

“If everything goes right, yes.”

He could hardly reconcile the city of his imagination, the end of a pilgrimage, a promised land, with the real, actual, visible electric gleam ahead. Suddenly he wished they weren’t quite so close to the end. He’d fallen into the new routine of travel, of bickering and driving and sneaking sleep when he could. “It doesn’t feel real.”

“It isn’t, quite yet. We still have to pass the gate and make it through the city to the capital complex undiscovered. But you’ve surmounted every obstacle so far. I have faith.”

“And once we get there they won’t turn us out? They’ll help us?”

“You’ve asked this already.”

“But what about Aravis?”

“Why are you grasping for concerns? Do you not want to go?”

“No, I _do_ want to get there,” he said. “I just-- you didn’t answer the question.”

“If Aravis goes to the embassy,” Bree said, “she will be cared for as well.”

“If?”

“Aravis believes her capture is likely. And she has a point-- even with the fisherman and Emeth’s reports, the empire’s focus will be on retrieving the stolen tech first, the runaway noble second, and the rebellious fisherman last. There is a real future where you reach the embassy and she does not.”

“But she said she’d go!” He was too loud; Aravis shifted in her sleep. He froze.

“Shasta, don’t think me callous,” Bree said, his voice as soft and even as ever. “I sincerely wish Aravis the best. But you agreed to leave your home to aid Narnia-- not her. It would not be an exaggeration to say that the information I have could save dozens of lives. It is crucial that we reach the Narnians without delay.” Shasta didn’t respond. “You don’t like that, do you?”

“No,” he said.

“You understand, though, don’t you?” Aravis head slipped; she startled awake, then gasped.

“Is that the city?”

“Yes,” Shasta said.


	6. Aravis in Tashbaan

_ time 5:23 _

As dawn approached, a ragged line formed outside the chain-link fence that encircled the city. Shasta and Aravis watched from just past the cluster of tents and shacks that sat crookedly on the rocky slopes. The fence was twice as high as any man and topped with coils of barbed wire; every hundred meters, hand-lettered signs hung along the fence on pieces of flattened scrap metal.

“I can’t read them from here,” Aravis whispered when Shasta asked. “What’s the game plan?”

“Game plan?”

She rubbed her eyes. “At this point they  _ will _ have specs for Bree, both of our names, and a crappy picture of me from when I was fourteen sent to each checkpoint and outpost.  _ Please _ say there was a plan beside walking through the gate.”

“We could try to sneak around the back,” Shasta said.

“Surface level is mostly barracks. We wouldn’t escape notice for more than a few minutes.”

“If the barracks house speeders, Shasta and I could blend in,” Bree said. Shasta was about to protest that this plan would hardly help Aravis, when Bree’s words from earlier returned to him, and the words caught in his throat.

“Emeth will have sent a description of him,” Aravis said. “Skinny boy in a speeder uniform without the ID tattoo-- even if you somehow get the motorcycle over the fence, it’s even odds at best that you’ll make it to the residential levels.”

“Could we cut our hair and try to disguise ourselves?”

“Did you bring scissors?” She tossed a palmful of cracker crumbs into her mouth. “I can hide my hair under a scarf, at least. You could borrow the other one.”

“What if I change back into my old clothes and we hide the speeder uniform?” Shasta suggested, hardly listening. There was a solution somewhere within his grasp, he was  _ sure _ .

Aravis considered. “You’d definitely raise suspicion for having a bike if you weren’t in uniform, but there’s something to the idea--”

Shasta clapped his hands together. “Then we trade! I’ll give you the uniform and you be the speeder. When Emeth was looking for you he described your leather jacket and purple scarf-- I’d bet a whole tank of gas they’re on the lookout for you in those clothes. The fisherman doesn’t have any pictures of me so they won’t know my face if I’m in normal dress.”

She jumped to her feet as he talked, crumbs spilling from her lap. “And if they’re looking for a boy in uniform they won’t suspect me of being the imposter.”

“It sounds like it might work,” Bree said.

“It will work,” Aravis said. “It’s brilliant. Shasta, give me the uniform.” He immediately unzipped it and stepped out, handing it over. She stared at him, eyes flickering a fraction wider.

“It’s a little dirty,” he said, shaking it. She didn’t take it.

“I meant go change--”

“Change where?” he asked, bewildered.

“Behind a rock or something, like a civilized person!”

“Who leaves their house to hide behind a rock and change?” She made determined eye contact. “Just take the uniform!” he said, exasperated. She snatched it, tossing him the clothing bundle from the cargo rack and scrambling uphill until she disappeared behind a stone outcropping. He found his tattered shorts and shirt and pulled them on.

“It is customary to change clothes in private,” Bree said delicately.

“It’s not like I stripped off my underwear,” Shasta muttered. “I don’t know what the fuss was about.” Aravis reappeared, wearing the mud-streaked red uniform. She looked relieved to see Shasta’s old clothes.

“Lucky we’re almost the same height.” She ran her hand wistfully over the smooth leather of her jacket. “Do you think I should leave the jacket and scarf here? If Emeth has people looking for it?”

“We’ll hide them under the towel and food wrappers,” he said.

“If you’re ready, we can’t delay,” Bree said. “Dawn is in three minutes.”

“Wait,” Aravis said, staring at the city like she saw something spelled out in the dimming lights. She shook her head, looking at Shasta. “It’s been good travelling with you-- both of you. You already did more than you agreed-- not telling Emeth on me, bringing me to the city gates. If we get caught, or split up, or  _ whatever, _ don’t put yourselves at risk for me.” She pulled her sleeves down over her tattoo-less wrists. “Finish your mission.”

“We won’t get caught,” Shasta said. “And you did more than your end of the bargain too-- you got us out when Emeth found us, you helped drive, and I would’ve run out of food for sure--”

“Emeth wouldn’t have been looking for us if it weren’t for me.”

“Uh, I had committed at least two crimes against the empire before I saw you.”

“Don’t say that so loud!” she said, but he was pleased to see a smile tugging at her lips. “Good grief, could you not argue with me for ten seconds?”

“I’d argue that--”

“Tsch! There! You were about to do it again!” A rattling came from the city; the gate was rolling open. The laughter left her face. “Look, all I’m saying is: if we get split, it’s each for themselves. It’s better than both being caught.”

He hated that. “Fine.”

“Promise? I don’t want you doing anything stupid and forgetting what’s most important.”

“What are you so afraid of?” he asked.

“Kidrash,” she said, her jaw set. She stowed her jacket and scarf and pulled her handgun from the cargo rack, tucking it into her pocket. “Promise?”

“Alright,” he said. She took Bree’s handlebars and began guiding him down the slope toward the road. Shasta followed, a buzzing in his gut. The first harsh rays of sunlight stretched through the cloudless sky.

“No gasoline emissions without permit. No civilian vehicles. Checkpoint closed from sunset to sunrise. Restricted areas are marked with red flags. Failure to comply may result in death, indenture or fine. That means don’t turn on that bike of yours, don’t sneak out after dark, and don’t get into the capitol complex or you’ll be shot. You forget any of that, you find one of them signs posted all over the city,” said the wrinkled old woman at the checkpoint. She paused, flicking through pictures on a dim tablet screen, then squinted at them. Shasta held his breath. “You’re clear; welcome to Tashbaan, don’t hold up the line.” They passed through the gate. 

“We made it,” Aravis said.

Shasta’s spirits were buoyant. “Did you think we wouldn’t? Where to now, Bree?”

Aravis paused, tilting the bike toward Shasta. “Turn the screen on.”

“It  _ was  _ on.” Shasta tapped the nav screen. “Wake up!”

“Keep your voice down,” Aravis said. The nav screen stayed stubbornly dark. Leaning over, Shasta tapped it again. Tried each fingerprint. Kicked the fender. “Stop that!”

“He won’t turn on!”

“Yes, I see!” Aravis said, grabbing Bree’s handlebars. “Keep moving before someone notices.”

“Where do we go?”

“There’s only one way  _ to _ go,” Aravis said, pointing ahead. The gate opened to a single street, with the fence on one side and a row of blank-faced barracks on the other, marked with strips of red fabric. “The city’s shaped like a drill bit, spiraling down into the ground. Keep going down and we’ll be able to disappear into the res district and figure something out.”

“He was working just a few minutes ago.”

“Maybe he’s out of gas,” Aravis said.

“When I found him he was running on fumes and still worked.”

“I’m more worried about how we’ll find the embassy than figuring this out right now,” Aravis said, her voice low. “Did Bree ever tell you where it was?”

“No. My clearance wasn’t high enough.” The road sloped down slowly. Bree rattled over wide metal grates. Up ahead, some sort of roof covered the street in shadow.

“I’m surprised there’s an embassy at all,” Aravis said. “I’d heard the empire crushed Narnia years ago.”

“I never heard of it at all. Makes you wonder what else is out there.” They passed into the shadow and Shasta realized it wasn’t a roof over their heads-- it was earth, set with wide metal grates that let light and air filter through. They were underground.

“Makes you wonder what else they aren’t telling us,” she said, then cleared her throat. “There sure are a lot of people about. Did Bree give you any clue about where we’d meet his… friends?”

“I don’t think so-- wait.” A memory sparked from hours before, when they first saw the city. “Something about how we had to make it through the city… what did that lady say? The restricted area?”

“The capitol complex?”

“That!” He glanced at her pinched expression. “Do you not know where that is?”

“It’s the hub of the lowest level-- a maze of government buildings, at the very bottom of the city. It figures that the embassy would be there.”

“Is that bad?”

“It is if my fiance is working today.” Anything else she might have said was cut off by a piercing mechanical shriek. Shasta’s head flew up. It was too early for a hurricane. Aravis hooked her arm through his, dragging him to the side as the crowd parted like water on a ship’s bow.  _ SCREECH! _ A rattling wooden cart appeared around the street’s curve.  _ SCREECH!  _ A man in a subdued gray uniform rode in it; a man without a shirt or shoes strained to pull it.  _ SCREECH!  _ A door opened in the barracks and all the foot-travellers scrambled aside as the cart surged into the sunlight and creaked to a halt beside it. The passenger climbed out and disappeared inside; the cart-puller wiped his forehead and headed back, the crowd closing behind him. Aravis released his arm.

“What was that?” Shasta whispered as they began to move again.

“Gray uniform means office work. Inspecting the barracks, maybe. I don’t know.” Her strides lengthened, and she clutched Bree with an iron grip. Shasta dodged a gaggle of old men, struggling to keep up.

“No, I meant-- why was that man pulling the cart if the other guy could walk?”

“There’s a fine for nonessential gas use-- anyone who’s anyone uses human transport inside the gates.”

“But who was pulling the cart?”

“Some prisoner, probably!” She rounded on him. “Can you stop with the questions?”

“Sorry,” he said, biting back a hurt response. Maybe broadcasting how little he knew about the city wasn’t the best idea, but he had  _ so many questions. _ How had they built a whole city underground?  _ When _ had they built it? How did they keep the lower levels from flooding during storms? How did they manage waste, and where did they generate electricity, and who produced their food?  _ I did, _ he realized. The fish his guardian took to Bithersee weren’t for the other fishermen-- they could catch their own fish, and they were bringing their own quotas to town. It was for stamps, so they could get ropes and fabrics from Azim Balda, or tools and mech parts from Calavar, or a few cans of fruit from Mezreel, or precious gasoline. Some of that catch must end up here. How many of these people had he helped feed? He looked at the seething mass of people filling the street, and felt a twinge of irritation. Had any of them done the same for him?

_ SCREECH!  _ Shasta jumped.  _ Storm siren!  _ Then he saw a cart ahead and shook the thought away as the crowd split, pressing him between sharp chins and elbows. The cart passed, hauled by two sweating prisoners. Like lungs filling with air, the crowd expanded to fill the street again. It was dim here. They’d passed far enough down that there was no natural light-- only a grid of feeble yellow bulbs hanging overhead. He blinked and realized Aravis was gone. 

His lungs constricted to the size of a pin, panic strangling his breath. “Aravis!” A meter away, her head turned. He had only seen her expression once before-- on a drowning man.

_ “Don’t shout my name.” _

“I thought something happened to you,” he said, shoving his way to her side.

“If something happens to me, you keep your head down and pretend we’ve never met!” she hissed.

“You’re being paranoid,” he accused, falling into step beside her.

“I’m not being-- well, I have good reason!” She huffed, craning her neck. “Why are people shouting? What’s going on up ahead?”

Shasta stood on tiptoes, trying to see over the crowd. A bubble of space had formed around two women shouting at each other. “Some kind of fight?”

“Oh, good,” she said, her shoulders sagging. “Stay to the side.” She skirted the solid ring of spectators without sparing them a glance.

“Speeder! There’s a fight--” An old man grabbed Aravis’ sleeve.

She yanked her arm free. “Don’t touch me,” she spat. “I don’t have time to settle petty disputes.” They pushed ahead. Shasta glanced at Aravis: narrowed eyes, gritted teeth, knuckles white on Bree’s handlebars. She scratched her chin so savagely she left sharp pink streaks. She caught him looking.

“Are you--”

_ “Shasta,” _ she interrupted, then shook her head. “The city’s laid out barracks, commodity businesses, residences, government buildings and imperial industries. It looks like we’re getting to the residences--” her voice was drowned out by the wailing of a siren, and they were shoved to the side by a wave of people as another cart passed. Shasta grabbed her wrist before they got shoved apart. “--getting to the residences,” she continued as traffic resumed. “If things go right-- if we can keep our heads down-- we’ll make it to the capitol complex in an hour. Then what?”

“Then…” Shasta released her arm and tapped Bree’s nav screen. Still nothing. “We just have to find the embassy. Maybe we could ask someone-- what if you found a place to hide with Bree, and  _ I _ ask around, no one here knows me--”

She jerked her chin in a nod. “The bottom level is a mess-- pipelines and elevators and alleys and restricted sheds everywhere. I could find somewhere to hide, I’m sure.”

“Okay,” he said. “Okay?”

She nodded again, sharply. “Okay.”

“See, we have a plan now,” he said. “It’s going to be fine.”

Underground, the air was heavy and hard to breathe. Shasta longed for a breeze. He would choose a hut in Bithersee over these stifled mansions. Better the burning sun than no sun at all.

There were storm beacons, even down here, clinging like flies to the tunnel ceiling between flickering lights. Less familiar were the chutes in the outer wall that sent a metal box flying up a cable, loaded with sacks. Shasta wished he could ask the worker that loaded it where it was going-- to an upper level? To the surface? What he could’ve done with one of those in the seascraper.

His stomach grumbled. He had no idea how much time had passed. He had grown accustomed to the screeching sirens and rattling carts, shuffling instinctively to the side as they passed. If his hunger and tired feet were anything to go by, they should be getting close.

Then they hit a solid mass of unmoving pedestrians, grumbling under their breaths. Shasta instinctively moved closer to Bree and Aravis. Twenty meters ahead, the passenger of a stopped cart shrilly demanded an explanation.

Even further up, a woman rose above the crowd, holding a loudspeaker. There was an ear-piercing squeal, and the crowd went quiet. “You are approaching a routine temporary checkpoint,” she said, her voice crackling with static. “Speeders, governmental employees, and citizens with vehicles, please move RIGHT. Everyone else, move LEFT. Again, this is a routine temporary checkpoint. There is no reason for alarm and anyone creating a disruption or trying to evade the checkpoint will be subject to further inspections.”

“Routine temporary checkpoint?” muttered a man near Shasta.

Shasta’s throat was suddenly very dry. He met Aravis’ eyes. “Do you think they’re looking for--”

Her face was ashen. “You take Bree. I’ll distract them.”

“Stop that,” he said, reaching across the motorcycle to grab her hand as she reached for the pistol bulging in her pocket. “Let’s at least try to get through.”

“But we have to take separate lines,” Aravis said. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. “If someone recognizes me you might not be able to get to Bree and then it’ll be screwed up for both of us--”

“It’s going to be  _ fine,”  _ he whispered. He knew his eyes were as wide as hers and his heartbeat just as frantic, but he mustered every ounce of calm and squeezed her hand. “Here, I have an idea.” He rubbed his hand on Bree’s fender and then held up his filthy palm. “Dirty your face. You’ll match the uniform better and your picture less.”

“The uniform  _ is _ pretty gross,” she whispered shakily, wiping her hand across the fender and then across her face, leaving stripes of mud.

“Vehicles and government employees to the RIGHT, others to the LEFT,” shouted the woman with the loudspeaker.

“You look like you lost a fight with a mud monster,” Shasta whispered. “It’s perfect.”

“Okay. Okay. It’s going to be fine,” she said, pushing her hair back and muddying her ear in the process. “Good luck.” She began hauling the bike to the line forming on the right.

“You too.” He watched her progress for a few seconds, then turned to his own line and realized that it was significantly longer. He swiped his muddy hand across his face and shirt then pushed his way forward, ignoring disgruntled curses and ducking a fist swung at his ear. Aravis slipped into place between a man in a green uniform and another speeder, leaning impatiently against his bike. He turned to Aravis, gesturing at the checkpoint, and she shook her head vigorously. Shasta wished he were there to hear what was happening. The checkpoint had been hastily made by a few overturned carts, with a cluster of uniformed officials waving people through. On the other side, a half dozen carts were lined up in a sea of pedestrians. Past that-- Shasta’s breath caught in his chest. Was that the lowest level of the city? A brightly-lit maze, with proper streets and buildings surrounding a walled compound. He reached the checkpoint. The official barely glanced at his dirtied fisherman clothes. “Name?”

“Uh, Emeth, sir.”

“You can go.” Shasta passed through and immediately looked for Aravis. A few seconds later she passed through, head ducked. He waded towards her. She lifted her chin, rising onto her toes to scan the crowd. Their eyes met.

“Aravis?!” An unfamiliar voice rose shrilly over the murmur. Aravis’ head swivelled towards the carts. “Aravis, is that  _ you?” _ She ducked her head, but it was too late. Everything happen at once: the girl leapt to her feet in one of the stopped carts, waving wildly; the checkpoint guards’ heads jerked up at the sound of the name they were looking for; Aravis’ limbs went loose, her eyes round as saucers.

The loudspeaker crackled. “Aravis al-Layth, please return to the checkpoint.” The woman checked her screen and pointed towards Aravis, who stood frozen. “Again, Aravis al-Layth, return to the checkpoint.” The crowd around her was thinning rapidly, her cover disappearing. Shasta shoved against the tide, but he couldn’t reach her fast enough. She caught his eye one more time, then dropped Bree and bolted. 

Two uniformed men hurried after her, but she dove back into the crowd like a needle through a net, the red of her uniform weaving in and out of sight like a flickering flame. The woman with the loudspeaker began shouting instructions, but the words were drowned by the rising chatter of the crowd and the pounding Shasta’s ears. People streamed freely through the unmanned checkpoint. The girl in the cart let out a piercing shriek and then leapt from her cart and flung herself at the woman with the loudspeaker, wailing hysterically. Shasta edged towards Bree. Someone grabbed his shoulder-- one of the officials.

“You!” he shouted over the hubbub. “Take this bike to shed D,” he said, kicking one of Bree’s dusty tires, then turning to marshal the flow of people as the overturned carts forming the checkpoint were slowly pushed aside. Shasta pulled the bike upright. He was sweating profusely, despite the cool sunless air. He’d lost Aravis. The streets were in chaos. He could still see a few of her pursuers, brandishing handguns to clear space before them. He shuffled in the direction the official had pointed. Shed D. 

He strode mechanically, slapping Bree’s nav screen without hope of it brightening. He felt like a storm was building pressure behind his eyes, with every thought splintering and sparking. He desperately wished someone would take his shoulders and tell him what to do, and save him from making this choice. He should’ve just stayed in the seascraper, he thought, eyes pricking, and then all this would never have happened.

Then he straightened, suddenly irritated with himself.  _ Oh, suck it up, _ he thought, glancing over his shoulder, a strange determination coming over him.  _ I don’t want to go back to the seascraper and I don’t need anyone telling me what to do.  _ He veered from his path, toward a stack of plastic crates, ducked under red tape and shoving the motorcycle between the crates.  _ I already know what to do. _ He hastily kicking the crates into a formation that would hide the bike to a passerby, sucking in a breath. “I’m sorry, Bree,” he whispered, already ducking back under the tape. “I’ll come back if I can,” he said, and then plunged into the crowd. He needed to find Aravis.

The crowd seethed in the city center. He couldn’t think of the passers-by as people-- the road was a treacherous channel, full of cross-currents and unexpected tides. Even with vigorous use of his elbows, it was slow-going. The conspicuous red uniforms of her pursuers had disappeared around the curve of the street.  _ Think like Aravis. _ She was quick, but he doubted she could outrun a half-dozen fully-grown adults for long, especially as tired as she seemed to be. He hadn’t heard gunshots; either she had been taken without a fight, or she had shaken them somehow. If she were still wearing that scarlet uniform-- she must have hidden. He broke free from the crowd and pressed his back against a blank-faced building, trying to catch his breath. He scanned the branching maze of identical buildings, sweeping aside his doubts. Crates and pallets, alcoves and alleys; he had to trust that she had found a place to hide. His challenge was to find that hiding place before they did. Shasta squeezed his eyes shut, gathering resolve to continue the search. He’d find her in time. He had to.

A pebble hit his ear. He blinked, glancing down. Not a pebble-- a capsule of crystallized honey, sticky with red lint. Lips parting, he looked up, squinting against the brightness of the electric lights to make out a dark shape wedged between the buildings. A second later, Aravis dropped to the ground beside him, staggering as she landed. He almost laughed aloud. She pulled him into the shadowed gap between buildings, clutching his arm for balance.

“You’re okay!” he whispered.

“My legs were about to give out,” she said, panting.

“We’d better move quick,” he said, poking his head out of the alley to scan the street.

She nodded. “I just wanted to say goodbye,” she said. “And give you--”

“I said  _ we _ need to move,” he interrupted.

Aravis only seemed to process every other word. “Where?”

There were two red spots in the distance. A few sheds. Narrow streets, narrower alleys, and in the center, a walled compound draped with red ribbons. His lips curled into a smile. Aravis was already shaking her head. “The big restricted building,” he said. “They won’t check inside because they think you’ll be caught at the door. C’mon!” He hurried out into the street; a split second later she followed, linking arms with him, eyes flickering wildly.

“Because I  _ will _ be caught at the door. If we even make it that far!”

“Unless--”

“That wall is three meters tall, Shasta,” she said as they wove through the crowd. They were almost there. They were there, staring up the smooth mass of packed earth. He cocked his head, calculating. “I see a speeder,” she hissed. “Shasta, you need to run before they catch me--”

“When I count to three, I’ll boost you up and you scramble over lightning-quick,” he interrupted.

“But--”

He laced his fingers together. “One, two--” 

_ “Okay!” _ She stepped into his hands, rubber sole digging into his palms, and he heaved her up. She scrabbled for a hold and he braced against the wall. 

“Speeder, that area is restricted!” He didn’t turn to see who had spotted them. She stepped on his shoulder, swaying as she grabbed the top of the wall, and then her weight lifted.“Speeder!” A wild excitement thrilled through his veins. Aravis straddled the wall, straining to reach him. Shasta took a few steps back and  _ jumped _ as high as he could. “Young man, stop right now!” He caught the edge and Aravis’ fingers clamped like iron around his wrists. A second later and they were both over, landing with a thump on soft green turf.

They sat against the wall, panting, staring. It was the strangest place Shasta had seen: a wide, level green space under a ring of golden lamps that filled the air with an electric hum. Spikes of flowers and twisting shrubs lined the lawn, casting pools of blue shadow. The chaos and clatter of the streets outside were faint and distant; the space amplified instead the quiet sounds of dripping water and the echo of footsteps and voices from further in. His leg had gotten hooked over hers and their hands were wrapped together and they leaned against each other without trying to untangle themselves, too tired and too relieved to move just yet.

“What is this place?” he asked.

“Capitol complex,” Aravis said. 

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Where’s Bree?”

“Outside. Hidden.”

“You left him?” she asked, tipping her head toward him with a frown.

“What, you thought I had him in my pocket?” He shook his head, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. “It was the best I could do.”

“That’s your plan? Just hope they don’t find him?” 

He bristled at her tone. He expected a rebuke from Bree, if he recovered the bike, but a tongue-lashing from Aravis was more than he could bear. “You and your plans-- I didn’t  _ have _ a plan, Aravis. You had a half-dozen speeders on your tail and nowhere to go, I wasn’t about to  _ leave _ you.”

“I told you to save yourself,” she said.

“Oh, we both know that was a load of rubbish.” It was irritation, or maybe the mad scramble over the wall, or maybe the scorn he imagined on her face without daring to look, that made his neck hot and his heartbeat fast. “This isn’t everyone for themselves, we’re not playing cut and run. If they’d spotted me you would have used up your bullets and then put up your fists, and don’t even try to deny it. We’re going to make it to Narnia together or not at all, and if you think I’m an idiot for going after you, I’m an idiot you’re stuck with.”

The electric lights hummed in her silence. He swallowed; he’d said his piece and that was that. 

“Are you serious?” Aravis whispered, her voice as soft and uncertain as he’d ever heard it.

He let out a huff of disbelief. “ _ Yes, _ I’m serious. We’re in this together.” He looked at her and her eyes dropped to his hand, still tangled in hers. 

“I don’t-- I never--” She shook her head. “Thank you.” A moment of stillness, of the muted chatter of the crowd outside and the distant murmur from the capitol halls, and then a smile tugged at her lips. “You know that means you’re stuck with me, too.”

“I guess so,” he said, nudging her with his shoulder as he barely restrained a grin himself. Somehow, this was the best possible outcome. “You won’t be a pest about it, will you?” She pulled their hands swiftly to her mouth, pressing her lips to his skin. He inhaled quickly, his heart skipping a beat. Her breath was warm against his hand.

“I might be,” she said.

“Um.” For a second, he couldn’t remember what they had been talking about. “Friends, then?”

“Friends it is,” she said, squeezing his hand before letting go. “What now?”

“We need to get Bree back,” he said

“And find the Narnian embassy,” Aravis said. “It’s somewhere in this complex, but-- well, it’s called a complex for a reason.”

“If you go back out now they’ll catch you for sure.”

“Another costume change, then?” Aravis suggested. “They wouldn’t have recognized me if Las-- if my friend hadn’t drawn attention to me. If I change into your--” she glanced at his mud-streaked shirt and thread-bare shorts. “--your outfit, I might be able to look for the embassy without notice. I can pretend to be an errand girl or something. And then you can be a speeder again and go find your bike. It’s risky, but--”

“I’m in,” Shasta said, lifting his leg so Aravis could free herself. She stood with a groan that he felt in his soul. There was a logical part of him that had a ticking clock, reminding him of the urgency of the situation, but there was another part of him that, only a tiny bit quieter, that wanted to stay here forever, in this humming green courtyard. He stood, pulling off his shirt, and then stopped. “Uh, should I turn away?”

“Please.”

He complied, pulling off his shorts and holding both garments behind him. He heard the  _ tzzz _ of the uniform zipper, and then she pressed fabric into his hand. He stepped into it, then Aravis hissed, “I hear something.” He froze, half-dressed. “Footsteps,” she said. “Coming this way. We need to hide.” He pulled on the uniform the rest of the way, fumbling with the zipper. Aravis darted to the corner with the thickest shrubbery. He followed her into the blue shadows, branches catching his sleeves. His back scraped the packed earth of the wall.

“Scoot over,” he whispered. “My legs are sticking out.”

“I’m already in the corner!”

“Well, flatten--”

“Shh!” With a click, the lights flicked to an austere white and they both went silent and still as stones. Aravis’ hair tickled Shasta’s ear as a man and a woman walked in.

 

“An unfortunate effect of the depth, I’m afraid,” said the man. Shasta could see fragments of them between the leaves: the man was heavy-set, but sounded young. The woman was tall, with a dark cape fluttering behind. He couldn’t see their faces.

“That conveniently began as soon as we passed the gate?” the woman said.

“I would be happy to launch an investigation into the matter, if you wish,” the man said. His voice was too smooth, like each word hid a mocking smile.

“I doubt it would be more successful than your others,” the woman said archly, pausing on the lawn. Neither wore uniforms, but the realization only gave Shasta a sliver of relief; neither the foliage nor the shadow would completely hide the red of the speeder uniform if they looked too intently in his direction.

“My lady, I can’t imagine what you mean.”

“The speeders sent to Calavar,” she said without amusement. “The citywide search this morning, the microphones in our quarters-- and don’t think I believe that your father authorized this meeting. You think you have eyes everywhere, a finger on every pulse, but all your schemings come up dry.” The woman’s voice was even, cold. “You aren’t emperor yet, Rabadash.”

“But I’m far closer than you ever will be,” he said. “And you would do well not to try me.” He paced with heavy footfalls. Shasta shrank back as he approached their hiding place. His hand found Aravis’s.

“I am not  _ trying _ you, like an impertinent child,” the woman said, raising her voice. “And it is precisely  _ because _ you are so close to the emperor that I refuse to believe that you do not know where he is!”

“I am not responsible to--” Rabadash’s voice faded as he stopped in front of the shrub. Too late, Shasta realised that his foot had slipped, the edge of his boot just barely peeking from the shadows. With a rustle, the branches parted to reveal Rabadash’s smirking face. Lightning-fast, he dragged Shasta out by the collar, kicking his legs from under him when he tried to stand. The fall knocked the air from his lungs. “What do we have here?”  The woman inhaled sharply. “And another one!” He shoved Aravis to the ground beside Shasta.

“Sir,” Aravis said, pressing her head to the ground. Shasta tried to copy the pose. 

“Sneaking into the complex for an illicit rendezvous?” Rabadash said, leering. 

“We didn’t mean any harm, Sir,” Aravis said.

“I didn’t ask you,” he snapped. She said nothing. “Are you on-duty, boy? What’s your name?” Shasta didn’t answer. His uniform was still only half-zipped and sharp blades of grass pricked his chest. He couldn’t think of a story that could get them out of this. Rabadash’s expression changed, growing suspicious. “Or are you here for something more sinister? What’s your identification code?” When he hesitated again, Rabdash seized his arm, nearly yanking it from its socket as he pulled back Shasta’s sleeve. “You’re the false speeder!” His foot flashed out, aimed at Shasta’s head, but the woman shoved him aside. Shasta rolled out of the way, catching sight of the woman’s face at last.

“Stop that!” she ordered.

“These are criminals,” Rabadash snapped. “A report came in from the girl’s brother a few hours ago. This boy stole a speeder uniform and kidnapped her.”

“You must be mistaken,” the woman said, her voice flint-hard. “This boy is named Corin, whom your speeders have failed to find him for two days.” She swept past a stunned Rabadash. She had dark skin and narrow, searching eyes; her thick braids slipped past her shoulders as she knelt beside Shasta. Her expression gentle as Rabadash’s was harsh. “Great skies, Corin, are you alright?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said instinctively. “I-- uh--” he shot a desperate look at Aravis.  _ Help. _

“Is this the woman you were looking for?” Aravis asked.

“Yes,” he said, clutching the story like a lifeline. “Yes, thank you so much for helping me find her.”

“Who is this young woman?” the woman said, offering Shasta a hand. Her wrist was stacked with brightly colored cuffs. He took it and stood, head spinning. 

“Uh, I forgot to ask her name,” he said, with an uncomfortable chuckle. “I asked her to help me find my way back once I realized I was lost.”

“And that led you to hide behind a bush in one of the emperor’s private gardens with--” The woman glanced at Aravis to fill in her name.

“Zardeenah, my lady,” Aravis said smoothly. “I was shopping for my mistress when I met Corin and I was afraid if we got caught, word would get back to her and I would be punished.”

“And who is your mistress?” Rabadash asked, arms crossed over his chest like a sulking child.

Aravis hesitated. “Lasaraleen of Mezreel.”

“Don’t report her,” the woman ordered Rabadash, without sparing him a glance. “She did us a valuable service-- and you too. If it had been up to your idiot speeders he would have been lost for good, I have little doubt.” Her voice was turning sharper, more decisive. “Zardeenah, thank you. I will send a messenger to your mistress’s house with a reward. You are free to go.” She nodded, dismissing Aravis. Shasta almost protested, logic barely overcoming the wave of distress that crashed over him. Aravis locked eyes with Shasta, lifting her chin a fraction of a centimeter.

_ I’ll get Bree, _ she mouthed. Then she nodded to the woman. “Thank you, my lady.” Turning on her heel, she hurried out.

“Surely you don’t believe that the two of them--”

The woman rounded on Rabadash. She was as tall as he was, and the disgust in her eyes cut off his objection. “Negotiations will resume tomorrow. Perhaps by then your advisors will have written you a sufficiently repentant apology to give.” She grabbed Shasta’s arm and stormed out of the courtyard.


End file.
